Project Eve: The Ring of Arinoth Book 2
by C. Allen White
Summary: [Continued from BTVS: Witch's Trial] Now - THE EXCITING CONCLUSION! An RAF commando team has come to LA to get Faith - but for what diabolical purpose? Can Angel and the ex-commando MacKenzie stop them? And how is W&H involved? Feedback welcome.
1. Chapter 1 Retrieval

Chapter 1 

Retrieval

The creature's panting was beginning to annoy Major Sheffield. The hyperventilating rhythm was irregularly broken by a deep, gurgling wheeze followed by a quiet, keening cry of pain. It was the irregularity of the sudden gasp and cry that Sheffield found bothersome. He wished the creature would just get into some sort of pattern – three breaths, then a cry, three breaths, then a cry – it really did help. He briefly considered putting it out of its misery, but the spell had begun and the firecracker retort of such an action would likely disrupt the ritual. He couldn't have that.

            Sheffield twitched his nose at the stench of the place. Kri-krite demons were not, by human standards, sanitary. Most of their food was scavenged from rotting heaps, and what wasn't rotten when they found it they left to rot before it was consumed. The males were large, green lumbering examples of an evolutionary blind-alley; they reminded Sheffield of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. He could easily believe that the makeup artist of that classic film had based the design on a sighting of an actual Kri-krite. The males also known to soil anything and everything they came in contact with, thus the additional stench of the place.

            The Kri-kite kept in family units, generally small groups consisting of an alpha female, usually a grand-matriarch of sorts, who kept her daughters and their mates with her. The females didn't develop much in the way of intelligence until old age – the males never did. This group was small, only the alpha and two daughters, a single adult male and an adolescent male. The adult male currently had a large-caliber hole in his chest, which was the source of the annoying wheezing.

            Sheffield's team had moved in quickly, making their way through the sewer tunnels below Los Angeles with the aide of night-vision gear and an electronic tracer embedded into the hide of the adolescent. Sheffield had enough hard-earned experience hunting big game to know that as soon as they tagged the scavenging youngster, he'd make a bee-line straight to the lair. He'd also known exactly where to find the creature, but that was from an altogether different source of knowledge. Sheffield had "inherited" the guidance of the anti-demon coalition The Ring of Arinoth after his contact to them, the sorceress Madame LaFusce, had died in Sunnydale. His communication with the Creator of the Circle, Arinoth himself, was a secret he kept from the rest of the team. They wouldn't understand; but then again they didn't have to understand, they just had to follow orders. And following orders was something the Royal Air Force had instilled in every member of this team.

            Well, not every member, Sheffield had to admit. They had left behind Captain MacKenzie in Sunnydale, a traitor to the team. MacKenzie had discovered the connection that the Major had to the Ring, or at least to the sorceress, and had decided to work counter to the mission objectives. The fact that the mission objectives were, when viewed all by themselves, 'highly questionable' should have had nothing to do with it. The team had been sent to Sunnydale to make sure that Buffy Summers, the Slayer, assassinated California Congressman Jackson Greene. Greene was an enemy of the Ring of Arinoth and a danger to humanity. That hadn't mattered to MacKenzie, nor, in the end, to the Slayer. They had teamed up against the Ring and broken the Sunnydale operation.

            However, Madame LaFusce had achieved her end just the same. The assassination of the Congressman was simply one part of the plan. The other part had been to test the Amulet. The Amulet was designed to make the wearer believe whatever the Ring wanted them to, even if it was something totally contrary to what they would normally believe. They had to make sure that it would work on a Slayer, and it almost had. They had learned all they needed to know – that the belief was strong enough to overcome any and all _internal conflicts the wearer had. It had driven Buffy to pull the trigger and attempt to kill the congressman. _

Had the congressman been dead right now, the team would've been on their way back to England with the wheels of the Ring's plans firmly in motion. But no plan ever survives contact with the enemy, and the _external_ conflicts had proven the plan's undoing. The Slayer's friends and associates had managed to muck up the whole thing; it was important to note that in the future, anyone whom the Ring would control would need to be isolated from their external support system. 

Even so, the Ring's plans were still in motion. 'Project Eve' would be put back on schedule. That's what the RAF strike team was doing here, in the bowels of Los Angeles, in the lair of Kri-kite, barely thirty hours after their defeat in Sunnydale. The Kri-kite matriarchs gained more than intelligence in their old age, they gained magic. The Kri-kite alphas had the ability to manipulate dimensional portals, and what Sheffield and his team needed right now was a finely manipulated portal.

In the center of the layer a small fire burned. A crude chalk circle had been drawn around it, inscribed with symbols and marked with bits of blood or feathers at various points along it. The alpha female, whose green scales had turned grey with age, shuffled around the circle chanting in her strange, alien tongue and shaking a wooden stick bound with some sort of half-cured pelt. She didn't break stride or rhythm as she chanted, but her hate-filled eyes never left the humans in the layer.

To one side lay the adult male, the purplish blood pumping out with each wheeze. He lay in the lap of his mate, who split her time between hissing at the humans and daubing a foul-smelling mud-like substance on the wound. Next to them stood the other female, who was completely consumed with restraining the adolescent male, who hissed and clawed at the humans in pain and rage.

The Kri-kite moved swiftly through the tunnels, and it took a full press run for the commandos to take the lair before the demons had a chance to understand what was happening. They had come in hot and ready, locked and loaded. The adolescent was screeching and clawing, the adult male just turning to go on the hunt, when the strike team burst into the layer and fired. The adult male was thrown back and bleeding and the full team got in place before the other demons even knew what was happening.

The 'negotiation' had been mercifully simple. The alpha female grasped the situation after only a moment and knew that the entire family group would be slaughtered where they stood if they didn't cooperate. The Kri-kite couldn't articulate anything that might be understandable by humans, but the alpha could understand simple words. It took only a few moments to communicate the desires of the team – the need for a portal – and what would happen if she didn't cooperate. She had readily agreed to the terms.

The seven commandos had stood their ground, keeping the demons under careful guard as the alpha female began the spell. The plan had almost gone awry when she demanded a key to the portal destination, some physical link to use in the construction of the spell. The team had handed the creature a series of maps and blueprints, who had stared at them blankly. It was one of those moments when everything hangs in the balance – the intensity of men too ready to pull the trigger meeting an excuse to do so.  Fortunately, a brusque but well-controlled series of instructions from Sheffield seemed to get the point across. The commandos relaxed only slightly as the incantation began.

Slowly the matriarch danced around the circle, humming, chanting, and occasionally making more vulgar noises that the humans could not identify. Each counter-clockwise turn around the circle, what in the past was called 'widdershins', ended with a flare from the fire. With each flare-up, the top sheet from the document stack was blown off by some unseen hand to drift into one corner or another of the putrid layer. Sheet by sheet the female demon worked her magic through the stack.

The first sheet was a picture of the Earth. From there the stack worked through satellite photos, each getting more detailed and marked with a red box indicating the scope of the photo below it. The fifth was a picture of a squat stone building in a desolate stretch of desert. Below it was the blueprints, beginning with a rough diagram of the walls and then working into more detail. The last was a detail picture of cell block C, with a red box neatly outlining the bunk in one of the cells. This too blew off, and then the spell changed.

The alpha female switched into a sing-song whimpering, and the air above the fire crackled with purple lightening. The power was building, the rift was opening. Sheffield nodded to another member of the team, who slowly lowered his rifle in order to draw a tranquilizer gun. The others shifted subtly, making clear that all the demons were still in a firing line.

The matriarch completed her final circle and stopped. She hissed silently and waited as the air continued to crackle. At some point that only she seemed able to discern, the magic was in balance. She lifted her arms, holding out the conjuring stick before her and raised a wild, unholy wail. It seemed to last for an eternity.

The demon struggled with the primordial magic which she could barely understand. Intellectually, she had no concept of what she was doing. But she sensed it, she sensed its unwillingness to bend to her will, and she sensed her deep need, driven by fear, to make it do so. She called to it with her cry, challenging it, bending it. If she failed to bend it sufficiently before running out of breath, the spell would dissipate. She knew that if that happened, she would die, and she wasn't about to let that happen. She continued to scream in the face of it – and she won.

The demon threw down her arms and the sky rent itself with purple fire. And through the portal fell a mattress and a woman. They both landed on the fire, smothering it instantly. The raven haired new arrival spun in her bed sheets, clawing for some frame of reference, like a person waking from a dream of falling. 

As a prisoner, Faith was used to being suddenly awakened. There was too much violence that could be perpetrated while you slept to not be able to wake instantly and fight. Whether it be guards, your roommate, or a rival, you had to be constantly on guard for those out to get you. You had to be able to wake because of any shift in your cell's environment and fight for your life. A simple falling dream was nothing. The only problem was that she had actually fallen – not just off her bunk, but across the universe and back through the series of portals that the she-demon had stitched together. Because of that, Faith suffered an eternal moment of disorientation the likes of which she'd never experienced before.

To her credit, Faith needed only a moment to orient herself and rise to fight. She was, after all, the Slayer. The _other Slayer, to be precise – but such distinctions hardly mattered. She was as strong and as fast and as lethal as Buffy. So she was on her feet in an instant, but it was an instant too late. The commandos had been ready for her, and two shots from the tranquilizer pistol put her down again._

The commando put the pistol away smoothly and went to check her pulse. Satisfied, he hoisted her into a fireman's carry, turned, and walked out of the layer and back towards the tunnels. Two of the other rifleman slowly backed away down the tunnels to cover him. The adolescent demon hissed in fury.

Sheffield and his men converged back towards the lair's entrance. With fewer weapons to bear, they needed to consolidate their position. They waited silently, giving time for the others to reach the transport point. When he had mentally calculated that they were halfway there, he made a quick hand motion, and one of the remaining three backed away down the tunnels. 

Now was the critical time – they didn't have enough firepower bearing on the demons to survive an all-out rush. Sheffield knew that the demons didn't necessarily know that, but he wanted to keep them off balance. He flicked a switch on his rifle and chambered a grenade from the bottom mounted launcher. The sound of it in the tense silence was like a thunderclap. Even the wounded male stopped wheezing for a moment.

Then, in his communicator, Sheffield heard a click. Team one had reached the rendezvous point. He waited calmly. Less than a minute later, two more clicks sounded. Team two – the one man he had sent out midway – had completed his task. Sheffield nodded, and he and the two other soldiers began backing out of the layer. Once out of immediate sight, he motioned the other two to move, and they began a sprint through the tunnels. Sheffield waited for the first demon to poke its head around the corner. It was one of the females – not the alpha – and he gently squeezed the trigger on his rifle. The creature was dead mid-hiss.

Sheffield turned and began to race down the tunnels. In moments he heard the sounds of pursuit. It sounded like both males were coming for him. He smiled. Team one was the extraction team for the target, Faith. Had they been rushed, the three men would have been enough to hold their position in the tunnels and then transport Faith to the operations zone. Team two, though only one man, was perhaps even more important. Team two was demolitions, and he had set up a couple of surprises to cover their retreat.

Sheffield saw the red emitters of the detection zone ahead and put on an extra burst of speed. Once through them, he was safe. Nothing else would make it through that section of tunnel alive. Two more turns and he would emerge at the rendezvous point. The others were already there, and the extraction vehicles would already be running and ready. He dodged around the corner, across a brief stretch of fetid water, and then around another.

The pipe let off into a culvert just big enough for their jeeps. It was a five foot drop, which Sheffield executed with the precision of a Special Air Service Major. "Fire in the hole!" he shouted as he dropped, knowing the two males were close behind him.

A moment later, two explosions rocked the underside of one of LA's poorest neighborhoods. One was array of ceiling mounted claymore mines that tore the two on-rushing male demons to ribbons. The other was back at the entrance to lair, which poured chemical fire and solvents into it. The remaining female and her matriarch, along with most of the evidence, was uniformly set ablaze.

Sheffield looked up at his men, a grin spread across his face. "Well done, gentlemen. Now let's get Little Miss Slayer here to safety." He laughed internally at the irony of that statement. He had taken her safely away from prison; safely away from those who did not understand her or her power. He had taken her safely from all the punishment this world could heap on her.

And in less than three days, Faith would be safely dead.

  



	2. Chapter 2 And Introducing

**  
** Chapter 2 

And Introducing …

"I want to hit L.A. by dawn. I'm not big on daylight driving."

Captain MacKenzie gave one curt nod to the tall, dark-haired man before him. 'Man' was, perhaps, a poorly selected word. The thing getting into the car to drive was a demon in the body of a man – a vampire. It was, in fact, precisely what Captain MacKenzie had been sent here to kill. But since coming to Sunnydale, MacKenzie had learned that there were far worse things in life than demons, most of which were completely human.

MacKenzie got into the passenger's seat, tossing his small pack in the back of the car. The demon started the big engine and popped the vehicle into gear, the tires peeling out and thrusting the large, old convertible onto the desolate road with surprising speed. Behind them and going the opposite direction were the dim taillights of the vehicle being driven by Buffy Summers, the Slayer. 

Buffy had nearly been duped into murdering California Congressman Jackson Greene. The plot had been furthered by the SAS team that MacKenzie belonged to – operating covertly in the United States under strict orders for the highest echelons of the British Military. The plot was masterminded by a corrupt wing of the Watchers' Council in order to eliminate the congressman's interference in other of their projects. The one in question was known only as 'Project Eve', and all anyone knew was that it involved Faith. 

The Watcher who had nearly succeeded in turning Buffy into a murderess, Madame LaFusce, had been killed in an ensuing magic battle with Willow. MacKenzie had nearly been killed by his former SAS teammates. That team withdrew, having failed in the primary mission of killing the congressman. They were now operating under the secondary mission – to retrieve Faith from the California Corrections Department. Faith was in prison, and the SAS team was going to break her out.

MacKenzie didn't know why the Watchers' wanted Faith, but he knew that the plot needed to be stopped. He may not know what they wanted with the woman, but he'd learned enough to know that it couldn't be good. So Buffy had hooked him up with the vampire Angel, a self-appointed guardian to Faith.

Angel looked over at the Scottish Captain and raised an eyebrow. "Scotland, huh?"

"Aye. Familiar with it?" MacKenzie replied.

"Yeah," Angel replied noncommittally. "Granted, the last time I was there was a little over a hundred years ago. I always liked it there, though."

"A hundred years? Well, not a lot has changed, I imagine." MacKenzie smiled, amused by his people's resistance to change. Solid and pragmatic, the Scots had become renowned as engineers. They were, according to many, responsible for the modern world. Men like Carnegie and Bell had led a wave of invention at the turn of the century whose impact was intensely disproportionate for the tiny country North of England. The very concept of modernity had originated there – a nonsexist concept prior to the intellectual renaissance of the early 1700s. With this lone thought the universities of Edinburgh and Glasgow had developed whole new disciplines – economics, political science, and sociology to name just a few. Capitalism and the free markets of Adam Smith were perhaps the most visible changes to the world, but the very heartbeat of modern civilization had started there.

Still, for all that, they were deeply embedded in their traditions and superstitions. Gaelic was still common there, and people resisted the vagaries of the outside world in favor of the steadiness of 'All things Scottish."

"Not to change the subject too abruptly, but how much time do you think we have, before they go after Faith?" Angel was nervous. As Faith's guardian, he wanted to be prepared. But preparing for an SAS team was a bit more complicated than your typical, run-of-the-mill apocalypse.

"If they follow standard tactics, they'll need to acquire arms, munitions, logistics, and intelligence. That means we have maybe three or four days. They'll strike fast, with a decoy strike on the guards most likely. They'll shoot their way in, pick her up, and keep going the same direction and out the other side." MacKenzie hesitated a moment at the end of recitation of the basic doctrine of this kind of conflict.

Angel sensed the hesitancy. "But?" he prompted.

"But Sheffield's been in contact with the Ring of Arinoth. I'm not sure they're calling the shots, per se, but I think they're not going to follow basic doctrine." MacKenzie's worst fear was that he was not going to be able to predict what was going to happen, and he didn't like admitting it.

"How many days then?" Angel asked.

"Anyone's guess," the Scottsman answered. "But they couldn't have made L.A. more than twelve hours ago. You can't put an operation of this scale together in that amount of time." Again he hesitated.

"Unless?" Angel prompted once more.

"Unless the Ring already had a plan in place," MacKenzie finished, and then they both lapsed into silence.

* * *

They didn't quite make it before dawn – it was more like 10:00 AM. MacKenzie was impressed, though, at the vampire's knowledge of the "underside" of L.A. From the deep shadows of buildings in the industrial district to half-forgotten tunnels to the narrow lanes of darkness that exist below bridges, Angel was able to navigate back to his offices even in the daylight. The last section of the drive took them into large underground canals that, it turned out, were wide enough to accommodate the huge old black convertible that he drove.

It struck MacKenzie as odd that a vampire in Los Angeles would drive a convertible. It was, perhaps, some form of temptation or castigation that compelled him to do it – the constant reminder that a small swerve of the wheel was all that kept him from a fiery oblivion. On the other hand, it could just as easily be the fact that even the night air in L.A. is warm. Whichever the case, it was hardly the time to think about it. There was much to do and very little time to do it.

MacKenzie lifted his right arm experimentally. It was currently bound in a sling, a remnant of the fight two nights ago with Sheffield. He had thought the Major was unarmed, but Sheffield had drawn out a last ditch spell given to him by the witch-woman. The effect had been similar to a large caliber gunshot through his shoulder. It had likely been intended to kill him, but aiming that sort of magic was slightly more problematic than pointing a rifle and squeezing the trigger. It was almost sufficient, though; MacKenzie had nearly bled out before Buffy and her 'Scooby Gang' had rescued him.

The loss of an arm didn't put him at too much of a disadvantage in relation to typical combatants. He was fully qualified on all small arms both left- and right-handed. He could engage in a variety of unarmed combat styles while injured, as well. But he wasn't going up against typical combatants. This was a fully trained and highly motivated SAS commando team. His injuries put him at a distinct disadvantage against them. His only hope was that with the help of Angel and his associates he'd have the necessary time to plan and outmaneuver Sheffield before they got to Faith. If he didn't, they'd be fighting a desperate battle against time.

Surreptitiously, he drew the combat command module out of his rucksack and checked it. The device was designed to work with the encrypted GPS transmitters each of the team wore. It allowed a real-time view of their movements against a map. It could be used to do a number of other activities as well, but for the moment it might as well have been a large paperweight. Nothing showed on the screen.

Mac knew that his own transmitter had been carefully left behind at the safe-house the team had used in Sunnydale in order to prevent Sheffield from tracking him. Now it appeared that the rest of team had either gotten rid of their own, or more likely had changed the communication scheme. It was possible that they were operating on another frequency set, or using a different encryption key. Of the two, the latter was the most likely. The Ultra-Wide Band transmitters had the benefit of being practically undetectable, appearing as white-noise across a wide frequency range. The disadvantage was that the frequency choices for them were almost laughably limited. However, the sophisticated encryption sequences more than made up for it. It was more than just message encoding, although that used a highly complex encryption sequence that not only protected the messages, but also made them appear random. The messages were timed bursts of data that had to specifically target for reception and synchronized. Unless the receiver knew exactly where, when, and how to look for the transmitted signal, there was no way to find it.

Mac tried all of the standard, pre-loaded sets of encryption in the unit. None of them produced any detectable matches. However, it was just as likely that Sheffield had created a custom set for the team. Given that circumstance, Mac could guess for a trillion years and not come up with a matching set.

Angel made a small maneuver around some rubble and through a hole in a concrete wall to arrive in what was obviously a basement storeroom of a rather large building. "We're here," he said, and climbed out of the car.

"We're where?" asked MacKenzie, taking in the not-quite-deliberate air of disrepair that clung to the place.

"My place," replied Angel.

"Looks big," grunted MacKenzie.

"Yeah, well …" was the vampire's only reply. He walked through the open doorway and across a large hall to a single, rather ancient hand operated elevator. MacKenzie followed more slowly, shouldering his rucksack with his left hand.

Angel closed the gate and worked the controls, holding down the 'up' button with his thumb and watching the mechanical indicator above the door. The wall slid by with painful slowness. "It's a hotel, you know," he said conversationally. Truth be told, he found that being confined to the elevator with a man who was a trained vampire hunter not nearly as disturbing as being confined to the elevator with a man who smelled of Buffy.

Angel was sure that nothing had happened between them – there simply hadn't been time. Still, the Scotsman had spent enough time around her in the last twenty-four hours to pick up a bit of her perfume on his clothes – as well as other, earthier odors. The commando would never have allowed detectable amounts of the stuff to get on him, or he would have eliminated them if they had. But only Angel, with his heightened vampire senses, could detect them. The result was a distraction that could not be ignored in the small elevator.

"Yep," he continued, rocking the balls of his feet. "Bought it myself. Really haven't had time to do much house repair on it, but who does these days?" MacKenzie merely grunted an acknowledgment that the vampire had spoken, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the statement. This proved, if possible, even more annoying to Angel than the forced proximity.

"And here's the lobby," he said, and exited in front of MacKenzie. Relief seemed to get the better of manners.

The expanse of lobby, by comparison to the storeroom, was immaculate. It had a 1950s art deco feel to it, well executed for the California not-quite-stars set. The eclectic cast of characters that once called this place 'home' was likely only rivaled by the cast that now called it 'work.' MacKenzie nodded appreciatively – it would make an excellent staging area for their work.

"Cordelia? Wesley?" Angel called. He turned and looked over his shoulder at Mac, who was standing just outside the elevator. "It's a bit early yet." He smiled the best he could, offering a cross between an "Aw Shucks" and a "What-do-you-expect-in-California" expression. "Make yourself comfortable. Would you care for a cup of coffee?"

"Sure, love some," said Mac, and walked over to the large round couch in the center of the lobby. He set his things down while watching Angel go back into the office area of the lobby. Behind him, the front door opened.

"I know, I know," said a bold female voice. Mac turned to see a finely shaped brunette coming down the lobby steps balancing a drink carrier of Starbucks cups, a pastry box, several file folders, and a Bloomingdales bag. She appeared to not even see him, but continued to chat as she manhandled her bundles in a barely balanced dance of disaster-waiting-to-happen. "But oh … my … God! Do you think someone in L.A. could find some other Starbucks to go to? It was like everyone was there – well not everyone, because there was no one there who was really important. Just really unimportant people, like me – you know, people who could really use a _raise. Or a hand with all this."_

MacKenzie stepped up and relieved her of the drink carrier and the pastry box – impressively for man with one arm in a sling. For the first time she looked up at him. "Oh!" she said, and stepped back. "Um, Hi! I'm Cordelia."

"MacKenzie," he said, and nodded at her.

"Are you looking for Angel?" she asked.

"Found him already," Mac replied. "I think he's making coffee."

"Oh no," she said, suddenly upset. "Angel plus coffee machine equals Haz-Mat alert. I'll be right back." She patted Mac on the arm and then half-ran to the back room. MacKenzie stood calmly looking after her, noting that the front door had opened again.

"Does anyone know how to get a tea stain out of … oh, hello there." A bookish looking man stood halfway down the stairs. He had several dusty looking volumes tucked beneath one arm, an arm which he was simultaneously using to rub the aforementioned tea stain on his other lapel with a handkerchief. His other hand was holding a cup of what was presumably tea away from his now stained suit. He smiled. "Wesley Windam Price," he said by way of introduction.

"MacKenzie," replied Mac, nodding to him.

Wesley indicated the drink carrier and pastry box in the man's one usable hand. "I see you've already met Cordelia."

"Yep," replied MacKenzie slowly. "She's in the back helping Angel with the coffee machine." The statement was punctuated by the sound of breaking glass from the back.

"No longer, I would think," replied Wesley. He walked swiftly over to the check-in counter and put his burdens down. Then he retrieved the drinks and pastries from MacKenzie and set them down on the counter as well.

About that time Angel and Cordelia emerged from the back arguing in harsh whispers. They stopped suddenly, having noticed MacKenzie waiting for them, and put on forced smiles. They all stood that way for one long, uncomfortable moment.

With a shake, Angel stepped forward. "Wesley, Cordelia, may I introduce Captain MacKezie of the RAF. Captain, this my crack investigating team." 

"Well then," replied Mac, "we should have no problems.". No one was quite sure whether or not he was being sarcastic.

  



	3. Chapter 3 And two more

**  
** Chapter 3 

Plus Two More

            Charles Gunn covered his nose and mouth with a kerchief. The burnt stench in the tunnels was overwhelming, and it was all he could do to control the lurch in his stomach. He walked along the burnt passageway tracing the source of the smell, and came to the Kri-kite layer. Little in it was recognizable – most of it was char and ash. But the body in the entrance was something altogether separate. 

            Gunn had seen enough demons both living and dead that the irrevocable proof of their existence that the body represented had little impact on him. He'd seen them stabbed, clawed, and chopped up. He'd seen them roasted by magic. Truth be told, he'd done much of the killing himself – always in self-defense.

            This demon, however, had had a fist sized hole blown in its head by a very modern weapon. That was usually not the case with demon deaths, and it didn't bode well for Charles Gunn or the neighborhoods he watched over. Whoever had done this, and it was undoubtedly a human, had also torched the nest. With something very big. And hot. And flammable.

            Gunn looked around the tunnels. He had come from the North tunnel, but the shot that killed the demon had come from the East tunnel. He decided to have a look down the East tunnel before going and talking to the rest of the gang. Not that he was quite sure what it was he was going to say when he got there.

            It took another hour of searching down tunnel branches before he found the two that had been killed by the mines. There wasn't enough left of the two males to tell what they had been. However, the amount of purple blood and green flesh on the walls was sufficient to convince him of their relation to the dead one by the lair's entrance. He looked around the tunnels briefly, and decided that the best choice was to go find Angel.

* * *

            "All I'm saying is that I've seen bear's claws, and this does nae look anything like one." MacKenzie regarded the pastry in his hand somewhat askance.

            "I believe that he may have a point," piped in Wesley. "I mean, I've seen dozens of pictures of Napoleon, and the Napoleons I get at the bakery look nothing  – "

            "If you don't want the donuts, you don't have to have the donuts," shouted Cordelia in frustration. "But I," she looked around to challenge them all, "am going to enjoy this if I have to kill every one of you to do it."

            Wesley and MacKenzie looked briefly at one another, and then at Angel. Angel simply shrugged and took a bite of his cruller. "I wouldn't mess with her," he said with his mouth full.

            "Back to the initial conversation," Wesley said, changing back into his most professional tone. "We can try to alert the authorities about an attempt to break out Faith, but I doubt they'll listen to us. That means we'll need to set up some kind of perimeter watch over the facility, ready to respond when they do strike."

            They had spent the last hour going over everything that MacKenzie knew, and what they could do about it. Since the information was completely unsupported by any kind of evidence that they could likely produce, they were left on their own. Had Faith been any other kind of client, they would have simply tracked her down and placed her under their own protection – perhaps moved her to a safehouse. In this case, however, they knew exactly where Faith was, but they had no hope of reaching her.

            Angel scratched his head. "And there's no way to track the team down, before they strike?" he asked yet again.

            "As I said, the best hope is to try to talk to the likely suppliers here in L.A." replied Mac. "Who would the team go to if they needed hardware or other operations support? If we can track them down and get some answers from them, then we might have a chance at tracking down Sheffield and the team."

            "If you can help me find them," Angel responded, "I think I can definitely convince them to talk." His serious look convinced all assembled that he could carry out that threat if needed. Indeed, if they were dealing with typical humans, then displaying Angel's demonic face would be sufficient to tilt the scales in their favor. But that implied that they could find the suppliers to begin with. MacKenzie was confident that he could – given time. Time was something that they didn't have a lot of.

            "Do you think you can make some calls, see if you can figure out who the suppliers might be?" Angel asked.

            "I'll need to visit in person, more likely. But I think I can track it down today," Mac answered. 

            "Good," Angel answered. "In the meantime, we need to figure out what some options are for protecting Faith. Wesley?"

            "I can see about coming up with some kind of protection charm," Wesley answered. "We'll need to get it to her, though."

            "We can take care of that tonight," Angel answered. "In the meantime – "

            "We got some skanky, dead demon crap down in the tunnels," Gunn said, walking through the front door of the hotel.

            "Okay, so much for the actual eating of a complete breakfast," muttered Cordelia, dropping the remains of her donut in the trash as he stomach turned over.

            "Gunn!" exclaimed Angel. "Good to see you."

            "May I present Captain MacKenzie," intoned Wesley formally. "Captain MacKenzie, this is our esteemed associate, Charles Gunn."

            "A pleasure to meet you," said MacKenzie with a half-salute.

            "Damn, English," said Gunn, using his nickname for Wesley. "There's more of you in L.A.?"

            "I'm Scottish, actually," replied MacKenzie good naturedly. "English here," he indicated Wesley, "is still a sole representative as near as I can tell."

            "Allright," said Gunn, nodding with a smile. "I like this guy."

            "What's this about skanky, dead demons?" asked Angel. "I mean, if you're done bonding and everything."

            Gunn sniffed as his only reply to the crack. "Some folks from the neighborhood came to me this morning. They said there was a whole bunch of noise last night, below ground, you know. Then this morning there's this amazing stench. So I went and checked it out, and there is something definitely nasty going on. There's a whole bunch of demon parts down there all doin' the roasty-toasty."

            "What kind of demons were they?" asked Wesley.

            "Kinda hard to tell after they'd been flambéed, know what I mean?" responded Gunn. "There was one that was kinda intact, though – but it was taken out by a big old piece of street hardware."

            "You're saying humans did this?" Angel interjected.

            "Unless other demons started packing heat, yeah," replied Gunn.

            "Wesley, you and Gunn should go check it out," Angel said. "I'm not wild about having this on our hands while we're trying to figure out what to do about the commando team," he added.

            "Commando team? You mean with napalm and stuff?" queried Gunn, clearly off balance from having missed the earlier conversation.

            "Yes, why?" responded Wesley.

            "Because that looks like exactly what came into that demon nest," responded Gunn.

            "Maybe I should go with them, to see if it was Sheffield," MacKenzie suggested.

            "Excuse me, but who is this guy?" Gunn asked. Angel briefly explained. "Damn," Gunn said, and Wes and Cordelia simply nodded.

            "I think it's more important that you track down those arms suppliers," said Angel to MacKenzie after the explanation. "I'll go with Gunn. Wesley can work on the protection charm."

            "Who are you protecting?" came a voice from the doorway.

            "Kate!" exclaimed Angel, Wesley, and Cordelia together. "What brings you here?" added Angel somewhat self-consciously.

            "Faith," said the blonde haired woman. "She's missing. I suppose you don't know anything about that, of course."

            "What do you mean, missing?"

            "I mean," said Kate, walking down into lobby to join the others, "that she wasn't in her cell this morning." She picked up one of the donuts and took a bite. "Bear claws, my favorite," she muttered.

            "How was she broken out?" asked Mac, curious about this new twist of events.

            "That's just the thing," responded Kate. "No one is really sure. There's no sign of anything. No holes in the walls; no missed checkpoints. She was all tucked into her bed last night at lights-out, and then wasn't there this morning."

            "She just disappeared?" asked Cordelia incredulously. "Geez, some people have all the luck."

            "Wait a minute," said Angel. "It's after ten in the morning. When was this discovered?"

            "It was discovered at about six this morning. But since there were no signs of any forced exit, the day guards just assumed she'd been sent to solitary. Not like it would be the first time. Then the solitary guards assumed she'd been sent to the infirmary. It took a couple of hours to figure out that we didn't have her."

            "We?" asked MacKenzie.

            "Kate used to be a cop," Angel replied. "Faith is a personal case with her."

            "Used to?"

            "Yeah, but I'm not now, and I have Angel to thank for it," Kate responded with a small trace of continuing bitterness. Kate had, in fact, been a cop. However, her association with Angel had led her into more and more bizarre circumstances – circumstances which she couldn't explain to her superiors. Eventually it had cost her her badge – and almost her life. Angel had saved her from an attempted suicide, but now her life was more or less adrift. She still had friends enough in the department who let her know when something of particular interest to her had happened. Faith was one of those items of interest. She knew that if Faith were missing, Angel had something, somehow to do with it. So she had come straight here.

It wouldn't take long for the rest of the force to make the same association she had. After all, Faith had been arrested following a gun battle with a watcher team at Angel's last residence. Kate wasn't sure whether she was hoping to track down Faith or protect Angel, but either way she was here now.

A lot was unspoken and unresolved between Kate and Angel. On the one hand, every part of her that wasn't busy hating him was trying to deny his very existence – and the existence of the rest of the demon world she'd been forced to confront. But he had saved her life, and there was between them some sort of bond that she couldn't quite identify.

She chastised herself for becoming so emotional about it. This should be about business – about finding and returning Faith. Somehow, though, it always came back to Angel. Everything always came back to Angel. "However, now she's gone, and it won't take the cops long to figure out that they should come talk to you."

            "I don't think we need that distraction," Angel said. "Kate, we need to get out to the prison to look around."

            "We?" she shot back in a direct impersonation of Mac's tone.

            "What about the demon bodies?" asked Gunn. "I can't identify them by myself."

            "I think you and I and the Captain should go to the tunnels," said Wesley. "It gives us the best knowledge base to work with."

            "Captain?" queried Kate, latching on to the word with suspicion. "Captain of what?"

            "A boat," said Wesley, unconvincingly.

            "A plane," said Angel at the same time, equally as unconvincingly.

            "You can call me 'Mac'," MacKenzie replied with a charming smile.

            "Looks like I'll just hold down the fort," Codelia said, giving them all a goodbye wave. "Have fun storming the castle," she added.

            "No," Angel said. "I don't want anyone left here for the police to question until we know what's going on. I think it would be best if Cordelia went with Gunn and Wesley."

            "Into the slimy, icky tunnels," replied Cordelia, arching an eyebrow at the thought. "Hm, this newsflash just in – _not_ going to happen. Thanks for playing, we have some nice parting gifts in the back."

            "Why doesn't Cordelia just go with Angel?" suggested Wesley reasonably.

            "No!" said Angel, a little too forcefully.

            "Okay," said Cordelia, smiling sweetly at Angel.

            "No," said Angel again, more firmly. "Kate and I have to discuss some things," he said, then lamely added, "Private things."

            "No we don't," disagreed Kate with a hand upraised.

            "But Angel," Cordelia whined, "I'm wearing linen."

            "It's settled," said Angel.

            "No it's not!" said Cordelia and Kate simultaneously.

            "Wes?" said Angel, looking at Wesley seriously. "You're the boss here."

            "I thought this was 'Angel investigations'," commented Mac, slightly confused.

            "Management shakeup," said Gunn, leaning over to place a supporting hand on his arm. "Don't even try to understand it, just take my advice and go with the flow." Mac nodded sagely.

            "All right, then," said Wes slowly. "We'll grab Cordelia some overalls, then she, Gunn, Mac, and I will go investigate the tunnels." He looked around the room for any disagreement. There was none, although Coredelia made a face. "Angel and Kate will check out the prison."

            "We need to move quickly," said MacKenzie, for the first time exerting an air of authority. "They've got about four to eight hours on us so far. That puts my plans about forty hours behind schedule. I don't think we'll be able to approach this the way we intended before. We'll need to find a quicker way."

            "Hopefully the investigation will yield some clues," Wesley said, nodding in concurrence. "But we need to be quick. Everyone needs to stay in contact."

            "The cell phones aren't going to work in the tunnels," Gunn commented.

            MacKenzie undid his rucksack and pulled out two small devices that looked like transistor radios. He handed one to Angel. "This should fix that. It works just like a walkie-talkie. Just press the red button to talk."

            "What's that?" asked Kate, turning a suspicious eye on MacKenzie.

            "Don't ask," replied Angel, Wesley, and Gunn simultaneously.

            Mac simply smiled. "Aye, well," he said, turning his charming grin on her, "I canna tell you that, lass. Let's just say that it's not something you particularly want to have to explain to anyone who wants to know where you got it from."

            "Is anyone likely to ask?" inquired Wesley curiously.

            "If they do, I recommend you shoot first and not stop to ask questions," replied MacKenzie. The covert communications hardware was designed to look like a normal transistor radio so as to not arouse suspicion. The only people who would have any reason to recognize it would be other covert operatives. That was exactly the kind of attention that Mac did not want to draw. More importantly, such operatives would view their possession of such equipment as proof that they were also convert ops, and therefore a threat to the United States. Such a situation would be very dangerous for Angel and his people. Seeing the others look at him quizzically, he added, "I genuinely mean that." His tone was deadly serious.

            "Okay," said Angel, clapping his hands and putting a forced smile on his face. "Sounds like a plan. Let's go."

            "One last question," piped up Gunn. "Anyone going to eat the last bear claw?" He simply shrugged off the stares of the others and took a large bite.

  



	4. Chapter 4 Investigations

**  
** Chapter 4 

Investigations

            "I shouldn't have eaten that bear claw," said Gunn, clearly nauseated by the smell in the tunnels. "I thought it was bad last time I was down here, but …." His voice trailed off with a grimace of suppressed sickness. He pointed the direction to the others, who went on ahead of him.

            They came upon the body of the female that had been shot first. She was still slumped against the tunnel wall in the same place Gunn had found her before, but the L.A. heat had begun to ripen the carcas. Wesley knelt to examine it, while Mac examined the walls around the entrance to the Kri-kite lair.

            "Kri-kite's," said Wesley, standing up from his examination. "An extraordinary species, actually. I didn't think that there were any here in Los Angeles."

            "There aren't anymore," replied Mac seriously. They all paused at the weight of his statement struck them. "What do you know about them?"

            "They're a matriarchal society, existing in small family groups. Sub-human intelligence, almost animal-like, except that mature females develop a certain level of intellect along with primitive magical powers." Wesley paused to rub his chin, seeking to remember what else he knew. "I can't remember much more than that, but I can look up more back at the office."

            "Look here," said Mac, pointing to the walls on either side of the lair's entrance. Small brackets were attached to the walls, twisted and discolored from heat. "This is where they mounted the incendiary devices. When they fired, they coated the inside of the layer with a flammable gel." He stepped forward a couple of steps and picked up another bit of metal about the size of a ragged quarter. "See these holes," he said, indicating a pattern of small punctures in the metal. "These insure an even spray over a large area, almost an aerosol. There probably wasn't a square centimeter of the room that wasn't covered by it."

            "And it set everything on fire?" Cordelia asked in disbelief.

            "The gel ignited," answered Mac. "It was probably a self-sustaining burn, the gel was designed to provide oxygen in the confined space. It likely contained an accelerant as well, and a thermal booster – probably magnesium. Everything in there was fuel."

            "Oh," replied Cordelia quietly.

            "Is that something the team would normally use?" asked Wesley.

            "Absolutely – if they were _intending_ to burn something up underground," replied Mac.

            "So what you're saying is," said Gunn, walking up the tunnel, "they fully intended to do this. This was all part of the plan." Gunn shook his head. "That is messed up."

            "Aye," was all Mac said.

            Mac motioned Gunn to show him the rest of the tunnels. Since this time he knew exactly where he was going, it only took them ten minutes to find the other kill zone. MacKenzie examined it carefully, looking for signs that could be used to trace the source of the devices that were used. There were a few small clues, but nothing he'd count as definitive. After a few, long minutes, he started heading back.

            "Well?" asked Gunn as he followed along at Mac's side. He was surprised that the man could remember his way back so easily.

            "Russian make," said Mac easily.

            "So that gives us a clue, right?" said Gunn.

            "Maybe," said Mac, "But there's too much of it around – it's really everywhere." Since the fall of the Soviet Union, more and more Russian weapons were ending up in the wrong hands. Ex-KGB agents were aligning with Russian mafia to make the illegal arms trade a big business. In a city the size of L.A. there could be several different sources of the same weapons. "I need to find something more to narrow it down."

            "How about the bullet hole in the demon up here?" asked Gunn.

            "Standard issue rifle," said Mac quietly. "I carried one myself," he added over his shoulder. "We packed in our own ammunition, so there's nothing much to discover from it."

            "So now what?" asked Gunn.

            "Now we take a look at the lair," said Mac.

* * *

            "So now what?" asked Kate.

            "Now we …. I don't know," Angel said, searching for the right word, "Chat?" The two of them had gone to the prison at Angel's insistence, and over Kate's objections. As she had predicted, they had been denied admittance. Angel had tried to insist, but with the prison staff on edge from the escape, they weren't in any mood for it. Kate had convinced him, on threat of dusting, to back off.

            She managed to speak to a couple of her friends there, and convinced them to come out to the parking garage and talk to her and Angel when they had a chance. For now, she and Angel had little to do but sit and wait.

            They were on the second level of the garage, back in the deep shade. They had traveled there in Kate's car, with Angel under a blanket. Not much had been said on the trip, although there was much Angel wanted to say. Kate, however, was not really interested in hearing any of it.

            "So," she said with exaggerated patience, "what would you like to chat about?"

            "Well, how are you?" Angel said, folding his arms and attempting to smile into her glacial stare.

            "How am I?" she echoed. She thought for a moment and seemed to mentally chew the words over. "I take it you mean, since my Dad was murdered by vampires, and since I lost the only job I ever learned how to do, and since every one of my friends thinks I'm a psych case, how am I?" She exhaled sharply, not inviting him to answer the obviously rhetorical question. "Well, other than the fact that my life is largely a shambles, and it's mostly because of you, I'm fine." She smiled coldly at him.

            Angel began to protest, but she held up her hand. "No, wait," she said firmly. "Now that I think about it, I really can't blame you. After all, you did save my life. Which, on the whole is a good thing." Angel began to smile at this, but her expression warned him to be cautious.

            "Now, on the other hand," she continued acidly, "the one thing I can't stand is to owe anyone anything. I always pay my debts back. But, with you I'm kind of in a quandary there, because you really don't have a life I can save. I mean, saving your life implies that you're alive, and you aren't." She threw up her hands in a gesture that seemed to indicate that everything should now be perfectly clear, even to someone as dense as he obviously was.

            "But wait," she said, warming to her subject with a passion that was, on the whole, not quite what Angel was hoping for. "Knowing that I have no life in Law Enforcement anymore, and the person who embodies the shambles of my life is you, what do I do? I," she flung her arms out in exasperation, "go and stick myself with you for the entire day, at a Law Enforcement establishment."

            Since she seemed finished, Angel gestured to speak. But instead Kate stopped him her hands once again. "No," she said. "Anything you say right now, any attempt to make me feel better, will just be rubbing salt into the wounds, okay? So, just drop it. The last thing I need to hear right now is you being nice."

            Angel struggled for a long moment as his nature battled with her request. He actually looked rather comical as he tried several times to speak, but each time stopped himself before any words came out. Finally, he settled into a thoughtful silence.

            Minutes later, they were both still standing there silently – Kate fuming and Angel in abject confusion – when one of the guards approached. He cleared his throat to get their attention. They instantly snapped their heads up, all the thoughts about their personal relationship – or lack thereof – being left behind.

            "Kate," said the man, an older black gentleman wearing Sergeant's stripes, "it's good to see you."

            "It's good to be seen, Ben," she said, smiling. "How's Rosa?"

            "You know," he said, smiling broadly at her. "She still asks about you. She still thinks you should let Jeremy take you out on a date." He laughed at that. "You're father would've like that – you dating a doctor."

            "Yeah," she agreed, but wistfully. "Dad would've liked that." She paused for a moment to let the conversation shift its momentum. "What can you tell us about what happened to Faith?" Instead of answering, the old cop looked meaningfully at Angel. "P.I." she said, by way of introduction. She made a mental to note to check and make sure that 'Angel Investigations' had properly gotten its Private Investigators license. "His name's Angel, and he has a vested interest in seeing Faith back here where she belongs."

            Ben nodded, accepting Kate's version of the situation while admitting to himself that he didn't quite believe it. "They're saying it was an inside job. Nothing busted, nothing broken. No sound. She's just not there"

            "Any chance it could be true?" she asked carefully.

            He shrugged. "Always a chance of that," he said plainly. "The thing is, even if it was an inside job, no one can figure how they did it."

            "Was anything else missing?" asked Angel.

            Ben looked at him carefully and instead turned to Kate. She nodded to him, so he answered her. "That's the strange part," he replied. "The only other thing missing was her mattress. Folks figure they rolled her up in it and carried it out, kinda like Cleopatra." Ben shook his head at the suggestion. "It doesn't show up on the tape, though. If they carried a mattress out, with or without her in it, nobody knows what exit they used."

            Kate nodded. "Is there any chance she's still inside? Maybe she's been ditched somewhere in the physical plant."

            Ben nodded, pleased with assessment of all the possibilities. "They got the dogs in there now searching, but so far none of them have found anything."

            Kate looked at Angel, who shrugged with no more questions to ask. So, Kate thanked Ben, gave him a hug, and extracted a promise to call her if he found out anything more. Ben, in turn, extracted a promise from her to come over for Sunday dinner – after all, Jeremy was going to be there.

            After Ben left, Kate and Angel stared at each other for a long moment. Finally he said, "You never really did answer the question about why it took so long for you guys to figure out she was gone. How do you manage to keep any prisoners at all?"

            "Well," she said, sighing, "even if we do lose them, most of them come back to visit their friends, so we just pick them back up then."

            "Really?" he asked, unsure as to how much of her reply was sarcasm. She didn't answer, but instead climbed into the car. Angel hurried up to climb in with her. "Kate," he said, smiling what he hoped was a pleasant smile at her, "really?" She continued to ignore him.

            "So," she said instead, "we've got a mattress. Not much to go on."

            "True," said Angel, "but maybe its enough."

* * *

            Cordelia picked up a badly deformed, but not consumed, spring from the floor. There were several others around where it lay. She looked at it, trying to discern its meaning.

            "Mattress," said Gunn, pointing at the spring.

            "Wha-huh?" Cordelia replied.

            "There was a mattress here," said Gunn. "That's what the springs are from."

            "Oh," replied Cordelia, and dropped the spring on the ground.

            "That's unusual," said Wesley, looking at the ground where the mattress springs were.

            "Not really," said Gunn. "Most of them are deathtraps anyway. Smoke in bed and – whoosh – just say, 'duraflame.'"

            "Not that," responded Wesley. "It's the location of it. There seems to be some evidence that there was a sacred circle here. They never would have slept on it."

            "A sacred circle?" asked Gunn. "You can tell that?"

            Wesley, distracted, merely grunted, but did not enlighten anyone further. "This confirms that there was probably a magic capable matriarch living here. She would use this circle to perform her magic rituals."

            "Rituals?" inquired Cordelia, not sure she wanted further elucidation, but like a particularly bad car wreck felt the need to look further. "What kind of rituals?"

            "Oh," said Wesley, still distracted, "your typical magic invocation ritual. She would probably do a little dance, and shed a little blood – "

            "Get down tonight, whoo!" Cordelia chimed in, laughing at the parallel.

            "Don't!" said both Wesley and Gunn sharply. They looked at one another, and then Wesley continued. "This kind of ritual magic can be very primal, and very powerful. Remnants of it likely linger in this space. We shouldn't take it for granted, or underestimate it. Don't you agree, Charles?"

            "Damn, Wes," replied Gunn, shaking his head and smiling. "I was thinking more along the lines of not messin' with the Sunshine Band. For a Miami white boy, K.C. could sure lay down some tracks."

            Wesley and Cordelia both rolled their eyes at that. "We'd better get back," Wesley said finally.

            "With what?" said Gunn, frustrated. "All we got here is a misplaced mattress."

            "Hopefully," Wesley responded, "it will be enough."

  



	5. Chapter 5 How to Make Friends and Influ...

**  
** Chapter 5 

How to Make Friends and Influence People

            "We're back," announced Angel as he entered the lobby of the hotel he called home. No one responded. Cordelia was in the back searching the Internet for any local news that might provide a clue (and seeing whether or not the new Nordstrom shoe line was available yet). Gunn and Mac, in the meantime, were quietly discussing the various sources of illegal arms available in L.A. Wesley was searching through his books for information on the Kri-kites.

            Angel turned back to Kate rather apologetically. "I'm sure they're just absorbed in really, really important things."

            Wesley emerged from the office carrying a large, mildewy volume. "I believe I may have found the information we need," he was saying to no one in particular. "Oh, hello Angel, Kate," he said. "Everyone, Angel and Kate are back," he called out.

            The others looked up from their various tasks and came out to the lobby. Angel and Kate walked down stairs. "Isn't that what I just said?" Angel muttered quietly out the side of his mouth. "So," he said, "it sounds like you found some clues."

            "We found a mattress," said Gunn, obviously not impressed with the results of their investigation.

            "Really? That's great!" said Angel, brightening. The others were obviously lost. "Cause we're missing a mattress," he responded when he saw the incredulous stares from the others.

            "Fascinating," said Wesley.

            It took several minutes of coordination, but eventually they were all arranged in the lobby in a manner conducive to sharing their findings. Angel and Kate went first, explaining what they had learned from Ben at the prison. Then Wesley explained what they had found, and MacKenzie supplied the assessment that it was definitely a military operation, but that he couldn't be sure it was Sheffield.

            "So, what are the odds that the mattress in the demon lair is the one missing from Faith's cell?" Kate asked. 

            "Well, it's not like there aren't a lot of old mattresses floating around that the homeless people are using," Gunn commented, then slapped his head dramatically. "Oh wait, there's only about a _billion of them in L.A. My mistake." The sarcasm was plainly evident._

            "The issue is not the presence of the mattress," said Wesley in his best schoolmaster tone. In truth, his parents often thought that he'd grow up to be a schoolmaster. His Father was fairly sure that it would be at a second rate prep school, or even worse over in 'the colonies'. Wesley tried not to think about it, though. "The issue is the location of the mattress – on top of the sacred circle. I can determine only one explanation for that."

            Everyone waited expectantly. When nothing more was forthcoming, Angel prompted. "Wes," he motioned with his hands for Wes to hurry up.

            "It's the reference on the Kri-kite," Wes continued, realizing that everyone had been waiting for him. "When a female matures, which is rare, they develop a rudimentary intelligence and magical power. But the magic is not sophisticated – it is primal. It is an ability to manipulate natural powers and connections; to rebalance the mystical connections in space." He looked at everyone, obviously finished with his explanation.

            "Wesley," said Cordelia after determining that he thought he was done, "please connect the dots for we mortals." She smiled a shining bright set of pearly whites at him. "Before we have to beat it out of you," she muttered through the grin.

            "Portals," he replied. When they still didn't seem to get it, he huffed in exasperation. "The Kri-kite matriarchs can open and manipulate portals."

            "That's how they got Faith out," said Angel slowly, the meaning of Wesley's information dawning on him. "They opened a portal and pulled her out."

            "More like they opened a portal below her, and gravity did the rest," corrected Wesley.

            "That explains the mattress," Gunn said.

            "But why would the demons do that?" Cordelia asked. "And how did the soldiers know they were going to do that?"

            "They made them do it," said Mac. "They came in fast and hard, guns drawn. They probably popped one of 'em as a lesson to the others. Then they made her open the portal, retrieved Faith, and eliminated the evidence."

            "Maybe it's just me," said Cordelia, raising her hand, "but there was _way_ too much confidence in that explanation."

            "No offense, bro," said Gunn, shaking his head, "but that is scary the way you say that." He looked over at Mac, his eyes boring into the Scotsman. "How do you know all that?"

            Mac looked at Kate meaningfully. Kate rolled her eyes and looked at Angel. "What is going on here? Who is this man?" she demanded.

            "Tell her," ordered Angel.

            Mac nodded. He looked around at everyone, deciding whether or not to trust the new addition to the team. Taking a deep breath, Mac looked at Kate. "I'm Captain MacKenzie of the Royal Air Force, Special Air Service. I'm part of a covert commando team operating in California. The leader of the team is Major Sheffield, and I am convinced that he has been corrupted by evil. He is acting under the direction of a rogue group in the Watchers' Council.

            "We were sent originally to watch and support the Slayer. But it turned out that the real mission was to support her in the assassination of a U.S. congressman. I broke from the team, and helped the Slayer stop them from completing the assassination.          However, the whole purpose behind the mission in the first place was to eliminate any obstacles to the Watchers' Council getting hold of Faith. With the failure of the mission goals, a separate mission profile went into effect.

            "The secondary mission profile was to acquire Faith – at any price. And it appears that they have succeeded."

            Kate whistled. She turned to Angel. "You don't play with the small fish, do you?" Angel shrugged. He really didn't know what to say. She turned to Mac. "What do they want with Faith?" she demanded.

            "If we knew that," Mac responded, "then we'd be a whole lot further ahead than we are now. But I do know that it can't be good."

            Kate looked at Angel and tilted her head towards the office. He shrugged, but she waggled her eyebrows insistently. Angel turned to Mac, who simply nodded. It was obvious that she wanted to discuss this privately.

            Angel and Kate got up. "Go check out the arms dealers," Angel said as he followed Kate to the office. Mac looked at Gunn, who nodded. The two of them got up and left as Angel closed the office door.

* * *

            "Hey Charlie Gunn, how you be?" said a nondescript man in greasy overalls working at a junkyard. "Been a while since I seen you. Whatchou be needin?" He smiled at Gunn, but his eyes drifted suspiciously over to Mac, who sat silently in Gunn's truck. 

            Gunn looked at the man casually, all bravado. He jerked his head towards the truck. "You looking at him?" he asked in challenge. "Don't be lookin' at him. I'm here, you better be lookin' at me. Understand?" Gunn was a street tough, and he understood the need to maintain control.

            "Who's your friend?' the other man said.

            "Business," replied Gunn.

            "Does Mr. Business have a first name?" asked the man in the overalls.

            "Yeah," replied Gunn. "None-of-your-damn." He  gestured expansively to the passenger's seat. "That's Mr. None-of-your-damn Business. Now, do I need to take my business someplace else?"

            "No, no," said the contact. "There's just been rumors that you're running in a more respectable crowd."

            "Well, even respectable crowds need firepower occasionally," Gunn replied. Gunn snapped his fingers in the man's face to get his attention. "Are you following me? Do I need to repeat myself?" The man snapped his attention back to Gunn.

            The greasy man had a lot of names over the years, and even more locations that he had operated out of. Somehow, the street always knew where to find him. Gunn was a regular customer, getting weapons that he used to fight the demons that constantly try to infiltrate the neighborhoods he protected.

            The man with no name looked at Gunn, assessing him as he did all his customers. Gunn wasn't sure whether or not the man was psychic. He hoped not, because and Mac weren't really interested in buying weapons. They were trying to track down the supplier who had sold Sheffield the weapons they used against the Kri-kite.

            They were starting with Gunn's regular suppliers and hoping to work their way up the "food chain" from there. However, it would only work if the suppliers believed that they were actually buying. Gunn had to keep his thoughts focused.

            The man with no name finally nodded. "Did you bring cash?"

            "Only if you have the have the merchandise I need," Gunn responded challengingly. "And I'm not talking about no piss-ant vampire killing crossbows. I need some heavy-duty hardware."

            The greasy hands fidgeted for a moment. He looked again over at Mac in the truck, and then back at Gunn. "What you into, boy?" he asked.

            "Nothing I can't handle," Gunn replied.

            "You lookin' for guns?" the man asked.

            "Demolitions," Gunn responded. "Directional, anti-personnel and untraceable. Preferably Russian."

            "That's a little beyond my expertise," came the response. "You sure you got cash?" he asked again.

            "Give me a name," Gunn responded, "and I'll take care of the rest." He waited a moment, and then held up a small wad of bills. The greasy man reached for them, but Gunn snatched them away and stared. 

            "Guy by the name of Dietrich," the man said finally. "Pool hall on West 95th. Knock twice. Password is 'Dasvidania.'" He snatched the money and turned his back on Gunn. "And don't blame me for what happens," he added.

            Gunn returned to the truck and sped off.

* * *

            "Kate," said Angel, attempting to placate her, "I think you're blowing this all out of proportion."

            "Proportion?" she yelled well into a full fledged fury. "Angel, we have a covert commando team operating in L.A. and blowing up its residents with …" she sputtered searching for the term.

            "Incendiary demolitions?" Angel supplied helpfully.

            "No! Impunity." she grunted, throwing up her hands. "Don't you understand how big a deal this is?" She put one hand on her hip and stared at him.

            "Well it's not like it's the first time," he answered. He was making reference to the watcher assault team that had originally come to L.A. to kill Faith. That was the incident that had led to her capture. At the time, Faith had been hired by Wolfram and Hart to kill Angel. A lot had changed since then.

            However, the vision of black helicopters and men operating above the law in her city was one which was particularly disturbing to Kate. She had sworn to serve and protect Los Angeles. She had carried that across all kinds of foes – human and demonic. She had stood up to creatures that most of her colleagues didn't even believe existed. She had faced them all unflinchingly.

            But commando teams were something different. They weren't boogy men brought up from childhood that could be faced – and killed – with the dispassion of the adult mind. Demons were something that she could face with aplomb because she had been afraid of them as a child, and as such had relegated them to the realm of all childhood fears. 

Commando teams operating on covert missions, however, were the boogy men of adult law enforcement agents. They were the superhumans that everyone aspired to be, and therefore what everyone feared. They were something that sent chills down her spine because she understood them, their capabilities, and their methods – and she knew them to be beyond her own. Vampires and demons she could face in ignorance or denial, either one being good enough to let her kill them. This was something altogether different.

Angel was right on one account, though. This wasn't the first time that these teams had operated on 'her watch' in Los Angeles. Two other times she had encountered something like this. One was the watcher team that had attempted to take Faith the first time. That had hardly been noteworthy, given the level of damage that had been done. The other case had been far more sinister.

Kate still had the nightmares sometimes. She would wake up seeing the bodies still before her, hearing the gunfire and knowing that the ship she was in had been booby trapped by experts. She could still hear the shouts of her fellow officers who had fallen to those traps, and the cold trickle of sweat as she realized that she had walked into the sights of a trained killer. To this day she didn't know why he didn't squeeze the trigger, only that she had survived that incident – and that it had been buried at the polite request of the U.S. State Department.

Now she was facing it yet again, and the only person they had to rely on was a foreigner whom they had known for less than a day. Kate was normally not too accepting of people to begin with. This was asking way too much.

"Do you think we can trust him?" she asked at last, desperately searching for a lifeline of reassurance.

* * *

"Do you think we can trust him?" asked Gunn, as Mac led the way into the pool hall. One look around would tell the trained eye that this was more than a typical punk front. 

The appearance of the place was a study in ideal low-income degeneration. Too ideal, to Mac's perception. Here and there were high-tech cameras. The men strategically placed looked too much in control. And for those who could tell such things, the bulges in their jackets were top-of-the-line weapons.

Mac shrugged. "He'll lie to us, try to cheat us, and then try to kill us," he whispered to Gunn. "So given that we know what we're getting into, I'd say we can trust him just fine." He smiled. Gunn didn't.

After making a few discrete inquiries, they were shown to a back room. Inside was a long conference table with chairs at each end, but none in the middle. Once inside, they were wanded down with portable metal detectors, and then left to wait. Gunn stared at his surroundings, nervous but too concerned with his reputation to display it. MacKenzie sat quietly in one of the chairs closest to them.

Moments later, a side door opened and Dietrich came in. There was no question as to who he was – the deference shown to him by the others was unmistakable. He sat down opposite Mac with his body guards forming a circle around them. Gunn was forced into a seat with a stare.

Dietrich puffed on a cigar, letting the silence lengthen uncomfortably between them. Mac, however, was not about to rise to the bait. He simply sat, waiting for the interview to begin. Gunn followed his example – not that he would've been allowed to speak anyway.

At long last, the arms supplier looked at MacKenzie. "You're interested in some heavy fire power, no?" he asked nonchalantly. "I, of course, wouldn't know anything about that sort of thing. But assuming I did, what would you be interested in?"

Mac drew out the small chip of metal he had retrieved from the demon lair, the one from the fire bomb. He held it up so that Dietrich could see it, recognize it, and begin to become nervous about it. After a long moment, he put it down on the table between them.

"I'd like to know who bought this from you, and where did you deliver it to?" Mac asked without preamble. "And I like to find them without them finding me," he added with a shrug.

Dietrich didn't look at or touch the piece Mac had laid out for them. He simply shook his head at the two of them. "You have big brass ones, that's for sure," he said, laughing mirthlessly. "Just who do you think you are?"

"That's the wrong question to ask," replied Mac calmly.

"Oh?" replied Dietrich. He looked around at his henchman. "I don't think that's the wrong question to ask. Do you guys think that's the wrong question to ask?" They all shook their heads. "Well, I don't think it's the wrong question, and they don't think it's the wrong question. But let's assume that we are all of us wrong for a moment, and you are correct. What then, is the right question to ask, do you think?" His face turned very, very serious. The challenge in his eyes was deadly. 

"The question you should be asking," Mac said calmly, "is that if you're metal detector missed that little bit right there," he said, indicating the bomb fragment, "then what else did it miss?"

Dietrich's eyes went wide as the import of that statement dawned on him. As he began to rise, Mac pulled an object out of his jacket pocket and slid it towards their host. He held up the grenade pin as it spun towards the other end of the table.

That's when all hell broke loose.

* * *

Mac used the communicator to signal Angel. "Uh, hello," came the response on the other end.

"Cordy this is Mac," MacKenzie replied. "We have our arms dealer, where would Angel like to meet us?"

"Let me check," Codelia replied. Mac glanced through the rear window into the back of Gunn's pickup truck where Dietrich lay, bound and gagged. Gunn was sporting a bruise on his left cheek, but other than that they had come through the encounter unscathed. The same could not be said for the mobsters, who were unprepared for the flash-bang Mac had sent down the table. The grenade rendered them incapacitated long enough for Mac to draw his tranquilizer pistol and shoot them all. 

Mac's quick thinking had kept Gunn from becoming another victim of the grenade. In a single, swift move, he had grabbed Gunn and shoved him to the ground, which was the source of Gunn's bruise. Together, they had extracted Dietrich.

"Mac?" came a query on the device. It was Angel.

"Go ahead," MacKenzie replied.

"Tell Gunn to meet us at Caritas," he said.

"Got it," replied MacKenzie. "See you there. MacKenzie out."

"Angel … uh … out," came the fumbled response.

"Caritas, got it," said Gunn without prompting. "This ought to be good."

"He's not very good with technology," Mac observed.

"You oughta see him try to pick up his voicemail," Gunn replied.

Across town, Angel looked over at Kate. "Lorne will be able to tell us if we can trust him. Will that be good enough?"

"It'll have to be," Kate replied.

  



	6. Chapter 6 Sing Sing a song

**  
** Chapter 6 

Sing … Sing a Song

There are many places on Earth that can be described as 'interesting.' Some are awe-inspiring; some bizarrely entrancing; some terrifying; and some can only be described as 'weird.' When factoring in the demon world and the countless dimensions associated with them, the list of 'interesting' places is beyond count. It is simply a fact of the natural (and supernatural) order that complexity and variety are infinite.

In all that infinite realm of possibilities, however, there is only one place like Caritas. It is, if such a thing is possible, all those adjectives that comprise 'interesting': awe-inspiring, bizarre, terrifying and weird. It is a convergence of cultures, both human and demon, that created a place unlike any other in any dimension. 

Caritas is a karaoke bar.

It could best be described as a little bit of Las Vegas in the middle of L.A. Glitzy, almost shmoltzy, with a leisure-suited owner named Lorne who's shirts were the only things louder than the music. Stylish, almost tragically hip, and with the voice of a choir of angels, Lorne played host with the air of someone who'd truly found what they were born to do. Or, more precisely, hatched to do.

Lorne was a demon, as were most of the patrons of his establishment. Granted, he was demon who counted Cher among his patron saints, and who could belt out all the standards better than the original artists. His dark green skin was capped by bright red horns and deep red eyes. He was an anomaly, or perhaps more of a fulfillment – a demon who was more 'L.A.' than most of the L.A. humans.

Caritas catered to demons of all types, both literally and figuratively. The drink menu was a study in demonic gastronomy, from Bloody Mary's that were a bit too literal in their execution to more exotic fare (most of which is best left to the imagination). Lorne himself preferred a finely made Sea Breeze, a drink so retro it was hip again.

However, Caritas had two other factors that made it _the_ place to be for demons. The first was a magical enchantment that prevented any demon violence from occurring inside the club. Any demon could be assured of a peaceful time when they came here, even if their sworn enemies were sitting at the next table. There were occasional outbreaks in the exterior alley, but the presence of a lot of humans in close proximity kept that to a minimum. The second feature was a talent possessed by Lorne himself. Lorne could read your future, and he was quite good at it. It did require that you sing for him, though – it was the only way he could see into your aura. – hence the karaoke bent to the establishment.

Few humans ventured into Caritas – it was primarily a demonic establishment. However, there were enough that did that the entrance of Angel, Cordelia, Kate, Gunn, Mac, and the unconscious Dietrich caused only a minor ripple of notice. The place wasn't completely packed tonight, but they were still relegated to a too-small table in one corner of the room. 

Lorne was on stage as they entered, doing more than justice to Kool & the Gang's 'Celebrate.' The crowd cheered as he took a bow, and then launched directly into a well executed version of  'Lady Marmalade.' (_Angel, I swear to God that's Pink sitting over there, Cordelia observed.) Two female slivorths sitting in the front row smiled and waved to him seductively, indicating that they would be more than happy to take him up on the song's suggestions. He invited them on stage, and the three of them executed some well synchronized choreography made possible by the slivorths prehensile tails._

Angel and his team propped Dietrich in a chair and ordered drinks, then proceeded to rouse him. He groaned as he came awake, attempting to shake off the cobwebs in his head left by Mac's tranquilizer dart. He looked about slowly, taking in the variety of species in the room. He was moderately unnerved at first, but seemed to settle himself into disbelief as he turned a hard gaze on Mac and Gunn.

"You two are dead men," he said calmly. "You do realize that, don't you?"

Mac and Gunn looked at one another and shrugged. "Look around you," Mac said to Dietrich. "You're no longer in your sphere of control, so I'd suggest you can idle threats."

Dietrich snarled at him and shot back, "This costume party? This is L.A., buddy. People like to play dress-up. Why the hell am I supposed to be impressed?"

"Because they're not playing dress-up," Angel replied, moving his chair to sit in front of the mobster. "See this?" he asked, pointing to his own face. He waited for Dietrich to focus on him, and then shifted from his human face into that of a vampire. 

The effect was instantaneous on Dietrich. He was smart enough to know that no amount of special effects could do what he'd just seen, even in this town. That meant that what he was seeing here could be real. He looked around again, noticing this time the subtle and not-so-subtle indications that the creatures surrounding him were not made-up actors, but the genuine article.

Angel cleared his throat, and Dietrich's eyes snapped back to him, this time dancing with fear. "Are we clear? Good. Now, he asked you a question before." Angel indicated MacKenzie by pointing his thumb over his shoulder. MacKenzie and everyone else calmly sipped their drinks. For most of them, the calm was feigned; MacKenzie, however, was genuinely enjoying himself. He alternated between a shot glass and a martini glass, smiling inwardly at Dietrich's discomfort.

Dietrich licked his dry lips. "Yeah," he answered, the words seeming to catch in his throat.

"Now would be a good time to answer it," Angel replied. Then he smiled, showing the arms dealer his fangs. The smile was anything but comforting.

"Okay," Dietrich replied, nodding. "I don't know nothin', you understand. These guys roll in a couple of nights ago – "

"Describe them," Angel snapped.

"Seven of them," Dietrich replied. "Brits. Armed to the teeth. Obviously special forces types – well organized. Disciplined. The leader's name was Shepard, or something like that."

"Sheffield?" Angel prompted.

"Yeah, that's the guy," he answered. "Anyway, they come to me, all business. I don't know how they found out about me, 'cause they didn't have a reference. But they came, knew me, and like I said, it was all business." He looked around anxiously, clearly not wanting to explain how he had been outgunned and outflanked before he even knew that they were there. MacKenzie had done something similar, and based on those two experiences, he was scared of who he was dealing with. Combined with the demons, Dietrich was seriously considering a new line of work.

"Anyway, the had intel on a weapons cache that they wanted to boost. They needed some support, transportation, that sort of thing. In exchange for my help, I'd get the bulk of the weapons. They'd just take what they needed and leave me the rest. Only it had to be right then." Dietrich looked around the group to see how his story was going over.

"And you agreed, I take the job?" asked Angel, not really needing an answer.

"I didn't have much choice, if you know what I mean," Dietrich replied. "Anyway, it went off without a hitch, and I ended up with a nice supply of firepower to sell for a few hours work." He smiled at them. "All's well that ends well, right?"

"Who'd the weapons belong to?" asked Kate. Her voice was chill. All was _not going to be well for this man; she'd make sure of that. If she were still a cop, she'd bust him right here. As it was, her best hope lie in finding out who was importing weapons into L.A. and then letting them be stolen._

"Some law firm," Dietrich replied. "Wolf-something. I don't know what they need with them anyway. They're a bunch of suits for god's sake."

"Wolfram and Hart?" Angel asked cautiously. For the first time in the interview he sensed a need for caution.

"Yeah, that's them," Dietrich indicated. 

"You know them?" asked Mac.

"Yeah. Local connection to the greater evil. They serve a group of demons called the 'Senior Partners.'" Angel shook his head. "Not a group you want to cross."

Mac nodded, working through the information in his mind. "Makes sense," he said after a moment. "Humans serving demons – that's exactly the kind of arrangement that Arinoth would go after. He preaches the enslavement of demons, and their destruction. Humans bowing to them would be the ultimate abomination." He rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment. "I take it Wolfram and Hart will take action from this incident. So, Arinoth has Sheffield hit their weapons cache to get the firepower he needs to take out the Kri-kites and get Faith. He also has him recruit Dietrich here for help, and leaves him most of the booty, so that Wolfram and Hart have a nice scapegoat to find and slaughter."

"But they'll still get most of their weapons back," Angel said. "He really hasn't hurt them that much."

"No," said Mac, thinking through the plan as it was likely executed. "Sheffield would have left a parting gift with the weapons. Something designed to take out the whole thing either when it's discovered by the rightful owners, or after they bring it back inside their facilities." He shook his head for a moment. "This is a double-cross wrapped in a double-cross wrapped in a gang war."

"That's just nasty," Gunn commented.

"What are you talking about?" Dietrich demanded. "Are you saying I'm sitting on a bomb?" He was clearly becoming more panicked by the minute.

"You're sitting on a bomb that is a magnet for vengeance," Wesley said calmly.

"Yeah? Well let'em come," Dietrich replied, trying to muster enough bravado to convince himself.

"I think that's the very last thing you want to do," Angel said. "If you want to live, that is."

"Actually," said Mac calmly, "he's already dead. Whether from one side or the other, that's pretty much a done deal. It's just a question of how many other people will die because of it."

"I'm leaving now," Dietrich said imperiously. To his surprise, the group made room for him and gestured to the doorway. They had found out what they'd intended to discover. And given the man's situation, there was little point in their interfering any further. Dietrich stood and straightened his clothes, adjusting his self-image back into place as he did the same with his tie. He looked over at Gunn and MacKenzie, fire in his eyes. "You two better start running," he said threateningly. Neither of them replied.

As Dietrich began to thread his way out of the club, though, Gunn pitched his voice loud enough to be heard, and formally intoned the phrase, "Dead man walking." The eyes of a dozen demons turned to stare at him, and Dietrich broke into a run.

The group sat back down at the table.  "What now?" Cordelia asked.

"Hey kids," came a too-chipper voice from behind them. Lorne made his way over to the table, smiling brilliantly (as he did at all his guests). He opened his arms expansively and proclaimed, "Welcome, oh prodigal ones." Shifting one hand to a hip, he waggled his index finger of the other hand at the group. "You guys never call; you never write. And when do you show up? When I'm doing two for one drink specials!" He sniffed slightly, indicating his hurt feelings. "I think I'm being taken advantage of here."

"We're sorry, Lorne," Angel said, turning his best 'puppy-dog' look on the host. Of course, still in vampire face, it really didn't work. Not that he was all that good at it to begin with. And especially not when he was dealing with a mess – like now. But he needed something from Lorne, something only Lorne could do. Therefore, he decided to exercise the better part of valor and tried to get Lorne out of his mood. "It wasn't intentional, I promise you. We've just gotten busy."

"Busy?" Lorne asked. "Sure, too busy to keep up with an old friend. Too busy to stop by and have a drink? Too busy for us unimportant people, huh?" He turned his head in a melodramatic gesture.

"But we brought guests," Cordelia chimed in. "We absolutely knew that they had to be introduced to Caritas as the hippest place in L.A." She nodded firmly. "We wouldn't bring them anywhere else."

Lorne turned and seemed to notice MacKenzie and Kate for the first time. "So you have," he said, delighted. "Okay, all's forgiven." He smiled brightly. He turned that smile on Kate. "You I know," he said. "No one mentioned that you were such a fox," he said. "Ever considered modeling?" Kate flushed, both flattered and embarrassed. No one could ever figure out if Lorne's ability to get straight to a person's secret desires and compliment them in the face of their most hidden self-criticisms was part of his psychic talent or not. Kate didn't seem to care.

Lorne turned to look MacKenzie up and down, noting the one arm still in the sling. "So, who's tall, dark, and can't drive a stick shift?" he said.

"Name's MacKenzie," Mac replied, extending his good hand in greeting. "You can call me Mac."

"Nice grip, soldier boy," Lorne replied. "Hey sweet-cakes," he said to Angel, delighted as the name caused an immediate flash of annoyance on the vampire's face. "Mind if I borrow him for awhile? I have a couple of slivorth girls waiting. Well, let's just say that Kiral and Karly really appreciate a big man with a strong grip." He laughed a slightly embarrassed, slightly naughty, in-the-know laugh that was so perfectly 'in' in L.A. right now. Cordelia was jealous at his ability to do it so effortlessly.

"Actually," said Angel, seeing the situation coming completely out of hand and desperate to stop it, "we need a reading. Do you think you could find something for Mac to sing?"

"Well, I've got a copy of 'Angus and His Kilt' in my bedroom," he said immediately. His attention shifted to the table at large and added, "I mean, who doesn't just _love Wench Works, right?" Not waiting for an answer, he regarded MacKenzie a little more critically. "You're a little too baritone for that, though. And the accent really throws me a wrench. My first instinct is Rod Stewart, but I just cannot see you with a feather boa." He pinched his lips as he mentally reviewed his catalog of music. "I know just the thing." He lifted Mac out of his chair, pointed to the stage and whispered a set of instructions to him. "Off you go," he said, shoving the man towards his sound tech._

Lorne took the vacated seat and signaled the waitress. There was no need for him to order; his desire for a Sea Breeze would be understood implicitly. He turned and looked at Mac's place. "Wow!" he said, pointing. "Was he drinking both of those?"

"Vodka martini with a single-malt chaser," nodded Gunn.

"Shiver-me-timbers," Lorne responded. "And he can still walk after one of those? I'd be on a first class ride to la la land with complimentary serving of _yugh_!"

"That's his second round," Wesley commented, smiling slightly.

"Two? Are you serious? Well, I guess it's true what they say about Scots," Lorne replied admiringly. "Of course, anyone who'll eat haggis …."

"Hey," said Cordelia defensively, "I know what some of your other patrons eat," she said. "Who are you to judge?"

"You obviously don't know what haggis is, sweetie," Lorne replied casually.

"So?" she shot back, intent on defending the tall, good-looking, and, as near as she could tell, _single_ Scotsman. Wesley leaned over and whispered in her ear just as Mac took the stage. "Gross!" she exclaimed as the opening riffs of The Proclaimer's '500 Miles' came through the sound system and Mac kicked in with vocals that proved that soldiering had been a good career choice for him.

  



	7. Chapter 7 Poker Face

**  
** Chapter 7 

Poker Face

            MacKenzie finished up the song with style, and stayed on stage a few moments to exchange cheers with a group of dorvits who were visiting from Scotland. They extemporized a slightly drunken rendition of 'Scotland the Brave' accapella with the human. Lorne raised his eyebrows – he'd been at a loss at how to get the dorvits out of their bad mood since they'd arrived.

            "Lorne," Angel said urgently. "Before he gets back, we need to know. Can we trust him?"

            Lorne looked back at Angel and the group, seeing their nervous expressions. He quickly turned serious. "Yes," he said simply, "you can trust him. As a matter of fact, you'd better trust him. This guy doesn't know it, but he's a major player in the next apocalypse. Or more to the point, in avoiding it."

            Everyone but Angel seemed relieved. "How long?" he asked urgently.

            "If our boy here fails, two days." Lorne looked around the group, stopping to stare intently at Kate. "You're here to help him, not the other way around. Get that straight or the City of Angels is going to need to change its name in forty-eight hours."

            Mac walked up then, and Lorne got out of his seat. He gestured for Mac to sit and patted him on the back. "Good job, Rob Roy," he said cheerfully. "I've had that in the library for years now, and you're the only person I've ever met who could sing it right. If you'd like, you can take it with you when you leave."

            "I'd rather take some information with me," Mac replied.

            "That's a given," Lorne replied. "But I'm throwing in the CD gratis." Lorne took a moment to collect his thoughts, and then put his arms on two chairs to lean down closer to the group. "Okay, here it is folks. Now, it doesn't make a lot of sense to me, but all I know is what I get." He looked around to make sure everyone was good with that disclaimer. Satisfied, he continued. "Now the guy behind all this has died – "

"That's great," interjected Angel. "Without him in the lead, the plot should start to fall apart."

"Now wait a minute, he's still in the lead," Lorne corrected. 

"But you just said he'd died," Cordelia stated somewhat confused.

"He has," Lorne said, holding his hand up to forestall other interruptions. "He's died a bunch of times. Stabbed, burned, poisoned, shot, and other things I'm too delicate to mention. But he's still around, which says that you're dealing with something way outta my league here."

"But we don't need to fight Arinoth," Mac said. "Unless he's here, which I don't think he is. We just need to find and stop Sheffield, who I can assure you is very much human."

"Good point," Lorne said nodding. "That brings me to the other part of this message – whatever this plan is for Faith, it requires a hospital facility. A fairly sophisticated one at that. And discreet. Track that down, and you'll find the rest of what you're looking for."

The group looked back and forth at one another. As obscure as this was, it was their first real clue. The information from Dietrich had simply confirmed that it was Sheffield that they were dealing with. This in turn confirmed their theory that it was Sheffield who had attacked the Kri-kites, and that he had done so to force them to whisk Faith out of prison via a portal. None of that had given them a thread to use in searching, though. This did.

"One more thing," Lorne said. "I have a special message for Angel. Come with me, Kimosave."

Angel got up and Lorne put an arm around him and led him to the bar. "I don't normally do this, you understand," Lorne began shyly.

"I didn't think you could," Angel replied. "I mean, I didn't think you could get a message for someone off another persons reading."

"Technically, I can't," said Lorne. "But sometimes it's not hard to put two and two together. And when someone comes in with an aura that's postmarked Sunnydale, I figure you're the person who's gonna want to be making four out of that equation."

"Sunnydale? Who?" Angel replied.

"Back corner, playing poker," Lorne replied. Angel got up to begin moving across the room, but Lorne grabbed his arm. "Remember, you can't harm him in here. Besides, I need to know if he's available for Friday night. He did a version of 'Mony, mony' that took the house down."

"What did he want? From the reading, I mean?" Angel asked.

"He's looking for a healer, someone who specializes in wounds from dark magic," Lorne replied. "Other than that, I can't say."

"Okay," Angel replied. "Tell the group I'll catch up to them. They need to go get started tracking down that medical facility."

"Got it," Lorne said, and the two went their separate ways.

* * *

At a table tucked into the darkest corner in Caritas, Spike sat looking at his cards. By his count he was up about fifteen hundred. There was another six hundred on the table at the moment. He needed twenty-five to get the healing he needed. His encounter with Mr. Gray had left him … injured.

He gazed around at the group of players, gauging their interest in the game. He could win this hand and maybe keep the slorinth in play, but the vorbigan would be out. The dornithal was anyone's guess, but they tended to be random by nature about everything. However, if he blew this hand, he would keep all three and get another pot of at least double this within a couple of hands. That would suit his needs quite well. He turned his attention back to his cards, making an exaggerated show of concentration.

"Hello, Spike," came a challenging voice, interrupting his thoughts. Spike looked up to see Angel standing next to the table, gazing down with his usual smug, holier-than-thou gaze. It was annoying.

"Angel, good to see you," Spike replied with obvious disdain. "And now that I have, why don't you leave? I'm busy." Spike turned his attention back to his cards, making a clear show of ignoring the other vampire.

"Now, now, Spike," Angel continued good-naturedly, "you wouldn't want your friends here to think you're anti-social, would you?"

"Go play with your own friends, Danny Boy," Spike replied. He didn't look up from his cards as he did so, but did make a rude hand gesture.

"Spike, c'mon," Angel persisted, looking around in mock incredulity. "We used to be buds. Best friends."

" 'Used to be' being the operative term here," Spike replied drolly.

"Look," snapped the slorinth testily, "if you guys want to reminisce, go find another table. I'm trying to play here."

Angel leaned over and looked at the slorinth's cards – an incredibly rude action. He pointed at the hand and asked the slorinth, "Is that good?"

"Spike," said the dornithal threateningly, "if he says one more word, you're going to fold, and the three of us will split the money you leave in the pot."

"He is going to go away now," Spike answered, his own voice taking on an edge.

"No I'm not," responded Angel.

"Fold!" demanded the dornithal.

Spike's temper flared. If he folded now, he'd lose the pot, which had been his plan to begin with. But that was with the intention of stringing these guys along. Right now it looked like he was going to be forced to fold and have them quit the game, which he really couldn't accept. If he couldn't keep them in the game, he was certainly going to keep what money was on the table. He slammed his cards face down on the table. "I am not going to fold," Spike nearly shouted. "And do you know why?"

"Why?" replied the dornithal.

"Because," Spike pointed at the slorinth, "he's holding a pair of jacks," but seeing the reaction of the slorinth added, "if that!" He pointed at the vorbigan and continued, "He tried to draw into an inside straight, but didn't get it." Then he smugly turned his gaze on the dornithal. "And you think you're sitting pretty with three queens, but they may as well be the Village People because I have a full house." The reactions of the three demons were enough to convince him that he had, in fact, been right. "And _that is why I'm not going to fold." _

The three other demons looked at each other for a few confused moments, and then threw down their cards. They each picked up their remaining money and muttered about Spike's lineage as they hustled away from the table. Spike, still fuming, gathered the money from the pot and added it to his own wad of bills.

Angel calmly sat down across from him, smiling fiendishly. Spike attempted to ignore him as he organized the bills, but his fury got the better of him. "I had them going," Spike spat at his former mentor. "Thirty more minutes and I would've had my whole stake, plus some extra. Now I'm still four hundred short, thanks to you." He slammed his hand down on the table in frustration. "It'll take hours to find three more suckers like that, lose to them for awhile, and then string them along enough to get them into the game but solid. That's if some other wanker like you doesn't come along and bollocks the whole thing up!"

"Gosh," said Angel calmly, "I'm just having so much trouble feeling bad about this. Now why would that be?"

"Look, you want me to say 'I'm sorry' for having you tortured the last time I was here? Well, I'm not," Spike smiled cruelly at the other vampire. "The way I look at it, you got the better end of the bargain. I mean, Mr. Tortured Soul would run out things to feel all martyred about if it wasn't for folks like me giving you an occasional bite on the arse."

"Why don't I just kill you now?" Angel said. "It really would save everyone in Sunnydale from having to listen to you."

"Oh please," Spike replied, laughing. "One, you can't touch me inside Caritas, so quit making with the threats okay. Two, I just saved your girlfriend from becoming a page one headline, so I think we're just about even. And three," Spike smiled even more at this, "you want to know what I know about laddie-boy's friends."

Angel wrestled with his emotions for a long moment. Despite being an evil creature of the dark – much as Angel once was – Spike was correct on all three counts. Angel shrugged. "Okay," he said nonchalantly, even though he was ticked off at having been outmaneuvered by Spike, "tell me what you've got."

"Not so fast, Don Quixote," Spike answered. "You owe me four hundred."

"Tell you what," Angel responded, "why don't you earn it? Lorne's looking for an opening act and I hear you do a pretty good rendition of 'Mony mony.'"

"Yeah, well," Spike clearly was torn by this option. While he had been resistant to karaoke in the beginning, the response of the crowed was somewhat addictive. " 'Rock the Cradle of Love' is more my speed, you know what I mean?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Sure," Angel responded indifferently.

"Buffy knows what I mean," Spike said. Angel's eyes snapped up, burning. He had crossed the proverbial line. Angel was done playing with Spike; Spike was far from done playing with him. "Seems she had a thing for our dear Mr. Idol in junior high school. You know what kinds of things young girls think about in relation to rock stars, don't you?  And as it happens, I am capable an _astounding_ impression of the man." Angel's eyes began to blaze with anger, and doubt. "You know how good it is? People keep stopping me on the streets here asking for my autograph. Some people want more. A _lot more. Like Bu- "_

He didn't finish the sentence. Angel moved like lightning to cut off the line of discussion. His anger had overcome him, and his good judgment. The enchantment which controlled Caritas prevented demon violence by turning it back on the perpetrator. Angel's sudden lunge ricocheted, and he was knocked back several feet, landing in a disoriented heap.

Angel shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and saw Spike looming over him. "Now that was worth it," he said, laughing.

Angel scrambled up and glared at the other vampire. "You've had your fun," he began, but Spike held up his hand.

"Indeed I have," he said. Then he turned serious. "Your friend MacKenzie travels in some very bad circles," Spike said. He drew aside one corner of his shirt to show a deep, weeping wound. "This is complements of Mr. Gray – he's with Executive Management. Seems he liked my technique with the railroad spike. Only this won't heal." He closed his shirt and held a finger up to Angel's face. "Now you listen here, mate. I didn't ask to be involved in this, and as of right now I'm not. I'm just here to get this little problem of mine taken care of. But I'd keep an eye out if I were you – there's a lot of very powerful beings involved in this struggle, and I'm not sure who's side is whose."

Spike adjusted his clothing and turned to leave, but Angel grabbed his arm. "This Mr. Gray, did you send him here?"

"I didn't send him anywhere," Spike replied.

"What did you tell him?" Angel demanded.

"I told him what he wanted to know," Spike replied.

"Which was?" Angel persisted.

"Where to find the other slayer," Spike replied.

"You led him to Faith?" Angel's temper began to rise again.

"No," Spike said, turning a challenging eye on Angel. "MacKenzie's friends did that all by their lonesomes. In case you've forgotten, they're the bad guys here."

"They're not the only ones," Angel replied. Spike jerked his arm from Angel's grip and walked off.

"So," Lorne said, walking up behind Angel. "Did you find out anything important?"

"Maybe," replied Angel. "If a really, really powerful demon were to come to Los Angeles, where would he go?"

"That depends," said Lorne. "How powerful is he, and how connected?"

"He's been sent from Executive Management," Angel replied by way of an answer.

"Well, then," replied Lorne, "I'm no expert on this. But when crime families come into each other's territory to do business, they usually check in with the local boss. Professional courtesy and all." He paused to think about this. "Which means …."

"Which means he'll check in with the Senior Partners," Angel finished. Suddenly, this was a whole lot more complicated.

  



	8. Chapter 8 Three Sides to Every Story

**  
** Chapter 8 

Three Sides to Every Story

Lilah was on an absolute rampage. She didn't have much of a social life to begin with; but what she did have she preferred to enjoy uninterrupted. She had just been having an absolutely lovely time with a well-known but currently out-of-fashion young heartthrob. His stamina for physical pleasure was impressive; his patience for his fortunes to turn around was less so. 

Lilah had, with sufficient inducement of her feminine wiles and the hint of a possible contract, gotten him into her bed. Not that a woman of Lilah's beauty needed much help to induce young beaus, but the hint of having an inside track on a new sure-to-be-a-hit film had set up her pillow talk. In the short breathers between passion, she had alternately stroked his ego, complained about the unfairness of the studio execs, and hesitantly revealed that her firm could reverse the young actor's present plight.

All that would be required of him is his soul. 

A small price, really, considering all he'd gain in the transaction. That's how the pitch was supposed to go. She hadn't quite gotten to that part when her pager went off. She wasn't even tempted to ignore it. As a Senior Associate at Wolfram and Hard, she presented temptation, she did not succumb to it. Well, technically, she had succumbed to it once, a long time ago, and it had made her what she was now. But that's a different story.

Wolfram and Hart, as a firm, didn't deal in souls specifically. They preferred money, or power, or both. Souls were a necessary currency that was often required to get to the other two items. They bought and sold them like mortgage brokers – keeping the promising ones and discounting the deadbeats to any number of hellmeisters, celestial slavers, and Hollywood agents.

The attraction of her companion that night was his connectedness to the rest of the hip in-crowd of young Hollywood. What he got, they'd want. She figured that if she could bag him, the cast of the entire WB lineup would be hers in a matter of months. But the urgent page had interrupted that.

Unfortunately, the young actor wouldn't be calling her. She knew how these things worked. If she didn't have him signed to a Faustian contract by the time she had her clothes back on, she wasn't going to get him. Saying, "Sorry, gotta go. Could you please leave my apartment now?" tended to bruise their tender egos. The only alternative was to promise to return to him quickly and let him stay. She would never go that far. Empty promises: definitely; leaving a twenty-something has-been in her apartment where her neighbors might see: never.

As she'd driven in to the office, she'd gotten the run-down on what was going on. Their assault team had an entire weapons dump missing, and they'd concealed it for over twenty-four hours. They'd tracked down the thief – or so they thought – but by then one of the partners had heard about it and decided to call in Special Projects. As the ranking member of that team, Lilah got the job.

If there was one thing she absolutely hated, it was cleaning up somebody else's mess. The only good side to this was that the officer on duty was already dead – that was one less detail she'd have to see to. The thief was being brought to her, and she'd have to decide what further steps needed to be taken.

That was enough to put her in a bad mood. When she'd found out that Angel was already a step ahead of them, she went absolutely orbital. As she stepped from the elevator onto the Special Projects floor, she didn't think anything could possibly make her more upset. It was 2AM, she'd been interrupted, she was cleaning up someone else's mess, and Angel was involved.

"Where is he?" she snapped at her assistant, Brendan, who had obviously been called out of bed to join her. She was mildly curious as to whose bed it had been, but she was too distracted to ask.

"Conference room three," he responded, but held up his hand when she turned to go there. "Uh …" he stammered.

"What?!" she snapped back.

"There's someone waiting in your office," he spat out.

Lilah's voice dropped to a glacial whisper. "Who is it, and what is he doing in my office?"

Sweat beaded up on Brendan's forehead. "His name is Mr. Gray, and he was there when I got here."

"I keep my office locked," she snarled.

"It was still locked when I opened the door and found him there," Brendan replied.

"Piss!" she yelled. "Go keep him company and find out what he wants. I'll be there as quick as I can." She stormed off to conference room three.

Brendan returned to her office with extreme trepidation. He'd told her Mr. Gray was there; he hadn't yet explained just what Mr. Gray was. She'd find out soon enough.

Lilah calmly entered conference room three, a smile on her face. It was important in these sorts of situations to give the impression that you were in control – enjoying yourself, in fact. Truth be told, she did enjoy this part of it. She enjoyed toying with the victim, seeing them sweat and beg and squirm. She liked seeing the fear in their eyes, knowing that it was her that they feared. It made her feel powerful; it made her feel superior. It also contributed to her quarterly bonus, and she really wanted a new Jag this time.

The thief – a man known only as Dietrich – sat in one of the comfy conference room chairs, flanked by two armed guards. The scene was almost comical, because it was clear that Dietrich was neither comfortable nor in need of guarding. His face one massive purple bruise, a number of other showed through the rents and tears in his clothing. He cradled one arm up to his chest defensively; to Lilah's well trained eye, it appeared broken in at least two places. Blood stained his shirt in too many places to count. 

His eyes were too swelled shut to see her, but at least one ear must have been functioning. As soon as she walked in, he began to plead. "Please," he croaked, his voice hoarse from screaming, "I know things. I can help you."

"Well, well, well," Lilah said, clucking her tongue like a disapproving mother hen, "It seems that you've already helped yourself. Unfortunately for you, you helped yourself to our things."

"We've found most of what was stolen," one of the guards replied. "It should be back in the storage area within the hour." His insignia said he was a captain, but his nervousness implied that the rank was very newly acquired. _Maybe they got rid of more than just the watch officer, Lilah thought._

"You can't," Dietrich croaked.

"Why ever not?" Lilah asked him.

"My life," he croaked back. "Spare me and I'll tell you," he said.

Lilah considered this for a moment, and then looked at the Captain. "Does our friend here have any family?" she asked.

"Wife with two children," the Captain replied, checking his notes to be sure. "Mistress with one child. All are currently under surveillance."

"Good," Lilah replied. "Start with the youngest. Kill one per hour until our guest tells us what we want to know."

"Nooo!" Dietrich croaked out. "You can't be serious," he said again, whimpering.

"Captain?" Lilah asked, her eyebrow arched in query.

"The youngest is named Pavel," the Captain supplied. "He's the son of the mistress, a woman name Elana. They live at 1355 Summerset Place. Pavel is currently in the East rear bedroom, sleeping. His bed abuts the North wall of the house, below the window." The details sent Dietrich into sobs.

"Here's the deal, and it is the only detail we're going to offer," Lilah responded. "You start talking, right now, and we'll spare your family. And believe me, we can make their deaths very long, and very painful. And when we're done with them, we'll go back to work on you." She paused, letting her words sink in. "So?"

"The stash is booby trapped," Dietrich said. "I don't know how, but it is. That's why I called you guys to come get it, ya see. I didn't want to be the one sitting on it."

"So you didn't know it was booby trapped?" Lilah asked, somewhat confused.

"We didn't steal the stuff," Dietrich said. "Not really. It was another group, we just supplied logistics."

"Who was it?" Lilah asked, her mind focusing like a dog on the hunt.

"Somebody named Sheffield," Dietrich responded. "British guy. Works for someone named Arinoth. That's all I know – and I only know that from the Scottish guy, the one with the vampire."

Lilah got up. "Check it out," she told the Captain. "If his story washes, leave the family alone, but contact Brendan about what to do with him. If it doesn't, you know what to do."

"Roger that," said the Captain.

Lilah turned around and left the room. On her way back she grabbed one of the other assistants, a girl named Reena who was always trying to emulate Lilah. "Get the Shirrock priests on standby, I have someone that they'll probably need to send to their Eternal Tormentor tonight."

"I, uh," the girl stammered. She'd need to get over that if she was going to make it here. "The Shirrock priests are involved in that labor dispute and won't banish anyone until they get a new contract."

"That's right," said Lilah, remembering. "Well then get Doctor Nievrak."

"Dr. Nievrak is attending a conference in Bulgaria," Reena supplied, shrugging her shoulders.

"Crap!" Lilah exclaimed. "What do I have to do to get send somebody to hell tonight?"

"Well, we do have those Vlogrinas on retainer, and their contract expires at the end of the month," Reena suggested. "We might as well use them."

"Hmmm," Lilah considered. "Ritual dismemberment would be a suitable punishment. We're kinda playing roulette on which hell dimension he goes to after that, but does it really matter? Probably not." Lilah nodded her head in agreement. "Good thinking. Let them know they'll have a guest coming." She turned and walked into her office.

Brendan jumped up and attempted to stammer through the introductions. However, the being sitting there was enough to unnerve anyone. The figure was dressed in an immaculate suit – deep gray, with a black shirt and a gray tie. His face was black. Not black like a charcoal – black like shadow. No features were perceivable but his glowing blue eyes. His hair, if it could be called that, was flame. 

He was sitting on one end of the small conference table in Lilah's office, facing the door. With her arrival he stood, gave a short bow, and introduced himself. "I am Mr. Gray," the voice – almost a normal voice – said formally. "You are Lilah, I presume?"

"Yes," she replied. "Glad to make your acquaintance."

"You would be the first," Mr. Gray replied dryly.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," Lilah continued, believing that no one was ever glad to make the acquaintance of Mr. Gray, but realizing that these creatures took bad manners quite personally. "There was a matter of great urgency that had to be attended to."

"The fool Dietrich and his association with the tools of Arinoth," Mr. Gray replied conversationally. "Yes, you are quite right, that needed your immediate attention."

"So you know about that?" Lilah said, giving her head a small shake in surprise.

"That's what I came here to speak about," Mr. Gray responded.

"You wished to speak to me about Dietrich and this guy Arinoth?" Lilah asked, realizing that she was quickly losing any semblance of control she thought she might have.

A sound not unlike a chuckle emerged from Mr. Gray. "No," he said, with a gentle shake of his head. He reached into the pocket of his suit and retrieved a rolled up parchment. Lilah noted that hands were made of shadow as well. "I didn't come to speak to _you about it," he said. "I came to speak to your Senior Partners about it."_

"The Senior Partners?" Lilah asked incredulously. "I don't even know how to speak to them," she said. 

"Of course you do," Mr. Gray contradicted her, and then gestured towards the bowl and knife placed artistically on Lilah's credenza. "Simply place my written appeal in the To'no bowl, allow me to offer a sacrifice with the Ku'u knife, and the partners will respond."

"I should warn you, they usually respond with instant death," Lilah said. She opened the scroll and attempted to scan its contents. The writing was all sworls and jags, barely resembling any sort of alphabet. It also glowed, which she found somewhat fascinating. She looked back up at Mr. Gray and shrugged. "You're funeral," she said.

She retrieved the bowl and the knife and placed both in the center of the conference table. She placed the unrolled parchment with the glowing writing in the bowl, and then slid him the knife. Without a word, he took off his jacket and rolled up one sleeve of his black shirt. The arm beneath it was made of shadow. He placed his hand firmly on the table, drew back the knife, and in one swift stroke severed his arm at the elbow. Silver blood sprayed out.

Lilah watched in grim fascination as he set the knife down, picked up the severed arm with his good one, and tossed it into the large bronze bowl where it landed with a thud on top of the parchment. "I hope that grows back," she muttered.

"If it did," he replied, "it wouldn't be much of a sacrifice, now would it?" With that, the arm, the parchment, and Mr. Gray all disappeared in a blinding flash of light.

Lilah looked over at Brendan. "That's not how they usually die," she said, shrugging. "But it'll do." She picked up the bowl and knife and placed them back on her credenza.

"Send down to research and see what you can dig up on either Sheffield or Arinoth," she said. "Then get someone to come clean up this blood."

"That won't be necessary," came Mr. Gray's voice. Lilah turned to see him standing exactly where he had been, his suit still immaculate, and his arm neatly in place.

"You got your arm back," she observed.

"Your Senior Partners returned it to me, yes," he replied. "Professional courtesy," he added a moment later.

"Do they always return the sacrifice?" Lilah asked, curious.

"Usually among peers, yes," he said, walking around the table. "However, if the receiver greatly fancies it, it is not unknown to keep it. And one would never think of asking for its return." He stopped in front of Lilah, and in an odd gestured reached up to take a lock of her hair between two of his shadowy fingers. "Should they ever require my assistance, there are sacrifices which I would very much like to keep," he said, and Lilah found herself fervently hoping that such would not be the case anytime soon.

"Anyway," Mr. Gray said, shaking himself and releasing her hair, "you and I are to work together."

"We are?" Lilah asked suspiciously.

"Check your email," he responded. "The _private account," he added. That was where orders from the partners would come. "We will help one another," he continued on when Lilah made no move towards her computer. "I will tell you about Arinoth and Sheffield," he said, pausing for a moment. "And you will help me deal with Angel."_

  



	9. Chapter 9 When the Powers Come a Callin

**  
** Chapter 9 

When the Powers Come a-Calling

"I hate dealing with these people!" Angel exclaimed to no one in particular. The phone receiver was cradled in the crook of his neck and an immense copy of the yellow pages was held out in one hand. The team was all back at the hotel trying to follow-up on the clues they had garnered from their visit to Caritas. Everyone was scattered around the lobby trying to find a way to research clues.

Cordelia and Kate sat facing the lone computer Angel owned, arguing over the right web sites to research. Gunn was on his cell phone calling people he knew; while medical facilities were pretty much out of their league, certain controlled substances probably were not. Angel was calling all the hospitals and clinics in the area with a description of Faith, hoping that some Jane Doe had been admitted sometime in the last twenty-four to thirty-six hours. Mac was simply sitting and thinking. So far, none of the approaches were producing results.

Results were precisely what the team needed at this point. They needed to understand what was happening, and why, and what it possibly had to do with Faith. They needed to understand the why's and wherefore's of Sheffield's team. They needed something to happen.

Cordelia got up and poured another cup of coffee. She was tiring, and the caffeine would provide a suitable stimulus to stay awake. She looked over her shoulder to where Kate had taken over the keyboard. "Do you want some?" she asked as politely as she could – a feat considering that the ex-cop was beginning to grate on her nerves.

"Hmmm?" Kate mumbled, concentrating on the screen in front of her. Kate was, despite her best intentions, getting drawn into this case. She really didn't want to; a large part of her didn't want anything at all to do with Angel. She told herself that she despised what he was – that she'd just as soon kill him as look at him. But deep down she knew the truth: the cases were just too exciting. Growing up with a cop as a father, Kate had been exposed to every mundane crime, criminal, and motive before she was twelve. She knew every thing this world could throw at her inside and out. There was nothing _new about it. The cases Angel followed, though, were something else entirely. They were all new to her, and that made them too exciting – too inexorably engaging – to refuse to play in them, despite the chaotic world it drew her into._

Cordelia walked up behind her and attempted to read the computer screen. Kate had logged into a private web site that allowed law enforcement agencies to exchange information on cases new and old. Kate was still using the I.D. and password she had used when she'd been an active duty officer. If there's one thing you could rely on in any large bureaucracy, it was that the wheels of process did not spin quickly. Kate didn't know when word of her dismissal would finally be passed on to this web site, but it would be months before enough paperwork was done within the department to declare her officially terminated; it would be months more, if ever, before they got through the process of telling anybody else. Given that it had taken her nearly eighteen months to get an approved login onto this site to begin with, she wasn't worried about its removal.

"Kate," Cordelia said, straightening up, "take the coffee."

"Thanks, but I don't want any," Kate replied distractedly.

"No," Cordelia said, an odd tint to her voice, "take it. NOW!"

Kate turned to see Cordelia's hands trembling, the coffee shaking out of the cup, over her fingers and onto the floor. Kate grabbed the cup from her just as Cordelia pitched backwards with a scream.

It was a vision – a message from the Powers That Be. Visions from the PTBs were extremely powerful. They were also decidedly abrupt. They came with only a moment's warning. In them, Cordelia could see what Angel needed to know. Not everything; not answers, _per se_, but clues. They were also debilitating. Cordelia would be thrown into near-unconsciousness from the vision, and suffer extreme headaches afterwards. But for the moment, the important thing was the vision. She had to allow herself to experience it, to communicate it. It had to be lived through – fought through, really – and then explained to Angel and the team with her last vestiges of consciousness. The visions told them where they were needed; what they were needed to do. They were the guidance from the Powers that set the direction of their mission, and an occasional course correction.

The team dropped what they were doing as they gathered around her. Her eyelids fluttered spastically as her body convulsed. It was like an epileptic fit combined with the most vivid nightmare imaginable. In her visions, Cordelia _was the victim. _

All at once, it was over. Cordelia crumpled like a marionette whose strings had been severed by an atomic blast. They only sign of consciousness was how tightly her eyes were screwed shut. The team waited, wondering if she would speak.

Without warning, only by some internal signal of her own mind, Cordelia gasped, inhaling oxygen in a sudden, mad rush to fill her lungs. Once; twice; three times. And then spoke – her voice distant, filled with hurt and sadness. "They're killing her," she said, and then stopped as tears of empathetic pain leaked from the corners of her eyes.

"Who?" Angel rushed out. "Faith? Do you see Faith?"

"No!" she shot back, her hands crumpled into fists that banged defiantly against the floor. "Blonde girl. Homeless," she muttered, recalling the details of all she had felt and somehow _known from being in her vision. "Free clinic, down on Jackson. They're injecting her with something – something cold. Her heart is stopping. She knows it, and she can't stop it."_

"Clinic. Medical equipment. We've got a lead," Angel said. "The Powers are cluing us in."

"Maybe," said Mac. "Maybe not."

"Either way, we have to check it out," Wesley replied.

"Yeah," chimed in Gunn. "And pronto. Y'all coming, or what?"

"Someone needs to stay with Cordelia," Angel said. He looked around at the team, one by one. His gaze settled on Kate. "You and Mac are the least experienced fighting demons," he said flatly, "and if it's Sheffield, we need Mac with us."

Kate's gaze sharpened, a deep penetrating glare in Angel's direction. She was defiant to being relegated to the role of babysitter. On the other hand, there was no guarantee that this was the break they were looking for. Pride bent to logic, albeit slowly. She nodded, just once.

"Okay, let's go," Wesley said, taking command of the team. They all moved to the weapons case in the lobby, filled with swords, axes, and less identifiable items. Kate, meanwhile, picked up Cordelia and carried her to the couch. 

"Keep researching," Angel told her as they began to move out. "Call us if you find something," he said.

"You too," Kate replied. "I'm not getting left out of this shindig." They gave her no reply as they left. Alone in the lobby with now unconscious Cordelia, Kate had to wonder what she had gotten herself into.

* * *

The Jackson street clinic was, officially, closed for the night. It would open again at seven A.M. However, that was four hours from now; Angel and his cohorts were disinclined to wait that long. So, with malice and aforethought, they went about breaking and entering.

Between Gunn's criminal past and MacKenzie's military one, the alarm system and door locks were defeated before Angel and Wesley could finish debating whether or not they should try to enter. The debate being thus rendered moot, the team began a thorough search.

The squat two story building had no patients, or any other signs of life, to give credence to Cordelia's vision. However, there was no reason to doubt it. The visions had never led them astray. With this in mind, they began a more thorough search, which is how they found the basement – and with the help of Angel's enhanced senses, the sub-basement. 

The seemingly innocuous ancient brick wall swung away to reveal a thoroughly modern set of stairs. The stairs led down to a brightly lit hall, where steady beeping noises could be dimly heard in the distance. The team descended, on their guard and ready for any sort of creature that might attack them. Nothing met them.

The guard desk at the bottom of the stairs was unoccupied. While this might be considered fortunate for the team, the large bloodstain on the wall behind it spoke of something more sinister. "Damn," Gunn whispered.

Wesley walked over to the sign-in / sign-out book at the guard desk. The last entry was nearly twelve hours ago. Wesley held up the book and pointed to the imprinting on the bottom of the page: _A Wolfram & Hart Property. The team moved even more cautiously through the corridors after that._

Most of the rooms were dark. The few checks of them yielding little information. The each contained an empty bed and medical monitors. All were empty and unused. That corridor ended in a 'T'. Light came from a room father down on the left. As the team spread out though, Angel moved right.

The others stopped their movements and turned back to follow him. He walked purposefully down towards the end of the hall. Wesley rushed up to him. "Where are you going?" he whispered harshly, demanding an answer for the odd behavior.

"Can't you smell it?" Angel replied, looking up.

"Smell what?" Wesley asked.

"Blood," he said simply. He stopped at the last door in the corridor. It was the utility closet. Slowly, deliberately, he reached towards the door handle. Mac and Gunn gathered on either side of the door. As his hand turned the knob, everyone unconsciously moved their weapons into a 'ready' position.

The door opened to a horrific site. Bodies were stacked in the closet – two nurses, a doctor, a patient, and the security guard. All showed signs of multiple bullet holes. Clearly, this was not a demon they were dealing with – it was Sheffield and his commando team.

Without a word, Angel closed the door. The team turned and headed back down the corridor towards the light. They were silent, each one trapped in the grimness of what they had seen. Demons were terrible creatures on Earth, but nothing compared at times to humans.

The last door on the left had a light on. It was a patient's room. Wesley and Angel moved in, directing Mac and Gunn to check the other rooms. Inside lay a blonde-haired girl, hooked up to a series of monitors and IVs.

She was alive, that much was clear from the regular beeping of the heart monitor. She was also unconscious. He face, weathered from a hard life on the street, was relaxed in this artificial repose. Her chest rose and fell with the gentleness of a deep sleep.

"I thought Cordelia said they were killing her," Angel said, perplexed by the sight before them. 

As a means of reply, Wesley picked up the chart and examined it. The notations were all in order. What had been done to her, as extreme and inhuman as it was, had been done professionally. For that, at least, they could be grateful. "They did," Wesley responded at last.

"Did what?" Angel said, having distractedly begun examining the room.

"They killed her," Wesley said. "Six minutes, clinically dead. Then they brought her back."

"What?" Angel stepped forward, looking over Wesley's shoulder at the chart which he could not hope to make sense of. "But why?" he asked aloud.

"Test case, I'd say," Wesley responded. "They needed to make sure it worked."

"More specifically," came Mac's voice from behind them, "they needed to make sure they had everything they needed to make it work." Wesley and Angel looked back at him, startled.

Mac moved further into the room with Gunn following. Gunn jerked his thumb back towards the corridor. "There's an O.R. back there, but it's cleaned out."

"Dear God," Wesley said, the truth beginning to dawn on him. "This is diabolical."

  



	10. Chapter 10 Unwelcome Visitors

**  
** Chapter 10 

Unwelcome Visitors

            Kate paced. She always paced when she was at a crossroads; it helped her think. Thinking was something she wasn't normally loathe to do. Most of the time, the thinking was clear, straightforward, and led to decisive action. Thinking about Angel, though, simply provoked her into fits of indecision. 

            He was, on the one hand, evil personified – a creature of the night. As she reflected on it, though, she realized that his being a vampire was not what bothered her. What bothered her was that every time there was something threatening her city – and she thought of L.A. rather possessively as _her_ city – he was right in the middle of it. It wasn't his evilness that was the problem between them. In truth, it was the opposite. Angel was a warrior of light, which meant that his life revolved around stopping bad things.

            Kate had been a cop – she understood a life of stopping bad things. But the things she had lived her life to combat were all things she could understand … and confront. She could combat them on her own terms, with her own skills, and in her own way. The things Angel and his crew faced were things beyond her understanding; they were beyond even her imagination.

            She turned on her heel, looking at the situation in her mind the way she would look at a suspect, saying in a quiet voice the questions she would ask herself if she was conducting an interrogation – _why does this bother you? What were you thinking? Why didn't you say something? The analytical part of her brain – the cop part – hammered away with those questions._

            _Because I'm scared_, she finally replied to herself. She shouted it in her mind, her defenses breaking down exactly the way a hundred suspects had under her cop-brain's relentless assault. _It scares me. Not the evil, not the thought of the bad things. No, it's that I'll be useless – helpless. It's _my_ city, and I have to depend on someone else to take care of it. _ She paused a moment, reflecting, wiping away the single tear that had begun tracing its way down her cheek. _Because I can't fix it, she admitted finally. _Because it's my job to fix all the wrong in this city, and I can't do it._ She paused for a moment longer, taking a deep shuddering breath. __Because I need him to help me._

            She looked over at Cordelia, who thankfully was still out cold. She couldn't imagine what she might have to do to the girl had she been observed crying. She glanced over at the desk computer. There was still work to do – still plenty of evil to fight. She'd better get to it.

            As she crossed back to the desk, the front door opened. Kate looked up expecting to see Angel. "Speaking of evil …." She muttered, and came out to the lobby.

            Lilah and Mr. Gray walked calmly into the building. Lilah's face twisted into the smooth, arrogant smirk she had practically trademarked. "Well, well, well," she said, shaking her head at Kate. "Is babysitting the best job you could find? You know, after being fired and all?"

            Kate's face went red with anger. Her hands curled involuntarily into fists. "Get out," she said lowly, every ounce of menace and anger carrying through in her voice. When Lilah and Mr. Gray didn't move, she took one step forward. "Get out now!" she snapped.

            She didn't see the blow coming. Indeed, there was no way for her to. Lilah and Mr. Gray were standing all the way across the room. The flaming demon in the well cut suit simply flicked his hand, and Kate was knocked off her feet and back into the bell desk. The crack of her head against the wood reverberated creepily in the odd acoustics of the lobby. Mr. Gray showed no signs of noticing; Lilah, on the other hand, smiled even more broadly.

            "Serves her right," Lilah muttered, and then pointed towards Cordelia's inert form. "That one," she told her companion, who moved over to her. Lilah stood a few steps back and off to one side in order to watch the operation.

            Mr. Gray raised one shadowed hand and reached out to Cordelia. Slowly he moved towards her head, feeling his way through her aura. With each inch, Cordy's breathing became more frantic and labored. Lilah grinned at the woman's discomfort, savoring it cruelly. 

            Mr. Gray snatched his hand back with a hiss. He turned his glowing eyes on Lilah. "This one is chosen of the Powers!" he growled accusingly.

            "Yeah. So?" Lilah replied.

            "You should have told me," he stated. "She will not do." He shook his head and turned away from her.

            "Why not? She's perfect," Lilah protested.

            "I will not offend the Powers by defiling their vessel," he said, his tone broking no disagreement.

            Lilah, however, was not one to be so easily dismissed. "You can't be serious," she stated flatly. "I don't know about you," she continued, her finger stabbing at the air in his general direction, "but my bosses aren't real worried about the Powers or their vessel. They just want a job done." She took a step forward and added, "And I suggest you start worrying more about what they think than what the Powers think."

            Mr. Gray turned his eyes calmly on Lilah. "Foolish," he said quietly. "Impudent," he added, his voice rising to a harsh whisper. "Mortal," he spat, and suddenly his hand was around Lilah's neck. He lifted her high above the floor. "_Your_ war is with the Powers, not _mine_." His eyes burned into her as he slowly crushed her throat. She could feel her trachea snap under the pressure, her vertebrae being compressed. "The sooner you realize that I am not here as an agent of your Senior Partners, the sooner you will realize that I hold your life _and afterlife_ in my hands and at my whim. You were given to me, Lilah, as a tool for my duty. I can use or discard you as I see fit." And with a final thought, he snapped her neck, and dropped her lifeless body to the floor.

            Mr. Gray stalked across the lobby to where Kate lay. He reached a hand out and detected a flicker of consciousness in her. "You are strong," he said, knowing that she heard him, even if it was too painful for her to move or respond. "However," he continued, reaching down to cradle her head between his hands, "it is often not enough to be merely strong." He closed his eyes for a moment, centering his power deep within himself. When he opened them, he could see that Kate had opened her own to a mere slit. "This will hurt," he said, without emotion.

            The searing pain that coursed through Kate's brain was the most intense agony she had ever realized. It was, to be sure, more than many incidents which had knocked her cold. However, the creature holding her needed her conscious, and so she was not allowed to escape into oblivion. Instead, she screamed.

            There was no telling how long it lasted. The pain was a universe unto itself – without beginning, without end. It merely was, and time had no meaning in it. The pain simply _was_, and it was forever.

            And then it was over. Suddenly, without warning, the universe of pain shattered, and unconsciousness claimed her. Her last breath was to hope that she was dead. Mr. Gray, however, had other ideas. He made sure that she lived, and that she hadn't retreated so far into her own mind as to be irretrievable. He would need her later.

            He stood, and looked around. Cordelia, in her unconscious state, was aware at some level of what was happening. She tossed and cried in her unnatural sleep. Next to her lay Lilah's broken corpse. Mr. Gray considered. He hated to leave Cordelia behind, but he dared not risk offending the Powers. Besides, he had Kate, and the knowledge he needed. He nodded, she would be enough.

            Then, with a sigh, he contemplated Lilah. He needed her, as well. At least for awhile longer. He waved his hand, and her body twisted of its own accord back into alignment. Bones knit suddenly with a sickening sound. He throat reconstructed itself. He left the bruises, though – a reminder that he felt she needed. With a quick nod, he retrieved her soul and shoved it back into her body.

            Her gasp of breath was followed by a strangled cry. She looked about wildly, crawling to her knees, fighting down the panic and bile. With a few ragged breaths she brought herself under control. Still on her hands and knees, she looked up through the long hair that had fallen across her face. The look she cast at Mr. Gray was mix of fear and hate.

            She remembered it all. She remembered feeling herself die. She remembered the panic, the crushing of her own body. And she remembered what had happened afterwards. She would get him for _that._

            Mr. Gray saw that she had returned to some semblance of reality. Of course, her eyes would be haunted for a long time. He knew, also, that her heart was filled with a desire for vengeance against him. He did not dismiss the threat, but it was not his primary concern at this point. He had more that needed to be done; he would deal with her revenge later.

            He pointed at Kate's inert form. "Bring her," he said to Lilah, and then strode out.

* * *

            "Bring her," Sheffield ordered. 

            Baker and Jessup escorted Faith into the warehouse office. She was still weak, barely conscious from the sedation. That was good. The other Slayer had been trouble, but this one was a killer. They had to be careful. Very careful. 

            They were set up on the waterfront. The warehouse space was dingy, rundown, and damp. Just beyond it was ample evidence of a war zone. Fire gutted hulks and multi-colored gang tags leant it an air of civil war. The few residents of the environment had no feeling for the place beyond subsistence. Sheffield had been places in the third world that were better kept.

            They entire perimeter of their operating area was secured and surveiled. Motion detectors, laser grids, and constant armed patrols prevented any interested locals from getting too close. Magical wards and a couple of slaved creatures kept interest from other quarters at bay as well. 

            Power had been the most difficult task. Their initial recon of the area had showed sufficient resources. However, when they began the task of setting up in earnest they discovered that the couplings and breakers were shot. There was simply no way to survive the power draw they were going to need. They had, instead, hijacked a diesel generator and brought it to the warehouse. That operation was performed by the less trustworthy members of the team. 

            The other operation had been to hit the medical facility. The doctor had arrived from the Ring mere hours before the operation was launched. He had the location – Sheffield didn't want to know how he had come across that piece of intelligence – and they had moved quickly. The test had been a success. They had killed and revived one of the women there with perfect precision. Then they had loaded up all the equipment and brought it back to the staging area. That had been a job for the others in the team – the ones Sheffield knew he could count on for _anything_. Even murder.

            With the addition of the generator, the setup was in full swing. Soon they would perform the same operation on Faith. She would need to be at full strength for that, though. That meant that they had to wean her off the sedatives. Unsedated, she was dangerous, unless they could control her.

            The guards brought the limp girl into the office and propped her on a chair. She was nothing much to look at, Sheffield reflected. Prison hadn't been good to her. She was thin, her hair was limp, and the fire in her eyes was barely a spark. Hard to believe, considering all she had done to land herself there.

            She was more than just a murderess. That anyone could do. She had become an assassin. First, she had worked for a demon lord who attempted to enter this dimension and control it. Then she had worked for Wolfram and Hart. Her record of successful kills was not very impressive. Twice she had been sent to kill Angel, and twice she had failed. Along the way, though, was an impressive array of dead and injured humans, demons, and at least one really good torture session. 

            Now, though, she simply looked like another broken reprobate. Her spirit crushed by the endless monotony and lack of hope that prison brings. He would have to reignite that fire in her; reignite it without burning himself. She had been turned from a wildfire to a smoldering bit of ash. He had to fan that back, shape it, and turn into a flamethrower. 

            And the Ring had sent just the tool for the job.

            "How are you feeling?" he asked cordially.

            Faith glared up at him. For a moment she thought she would simply flip him off and refuse to answer, but she swallowed that impulse. "Crappy," she managed to croak out.

            "That's understandable," he said. "The demons who transported you out of the prison also poisoned you. It's a good thing we found you in time, otherwise it would've been much worse."

            Faith looked up at that, confusion transforming her face. "Huh?" she managed to say at last.

            "We rescued you," he said, simply.

            She shook her head. "Captured me, you mean?"

            "Captured? No, of course not." Sheffield shook his head and smiled at her, putting his friendliest expression. It wasn't much, but it was all he had. "What makes you think that?"

            "I'm a prisoner," she replied. "Only without the yard time."

            "Prisoner? No." Sheffield again smiled at her. "I'm sorry for the misunderstanding. You're not a prisoner at all."

            "Then why have I been locked up?" she asked, a bit of defiance emerging, but mixed with a tinge of hope. Was it too much to hope? To believe?

            "The poison," Sheffield replied. "You were quarantined."

            "But I'm better now?" she replied, irony twisting her expression. "Try again."

            Sheffield held up his hand to forestall further argument. "No," he said, "you're not better. Not yet." He turned and took a box from his desk and opened its lid. From it he took an amulet. "But we just received this," he said, showing it to her. "And this will make it all better." 

They locked gazes for a moment as Faith waged a battle deep inside herself. Hope battled with cynicism, but under the intense gaze of the Major, hope won out. She reached for the amulet, and Sheffield assisted her in putting it on.

He smiled at her. "Rest now," he said. "When you wake up, it will be much, much better." Faith nodded, and Sheffield could almost see the tendrils of control reaching out from the amulet to invade her.

_Yes_, he thought, _soon it will be much better_.

  



	11. Chapter 11 Old Friends

**  
** Chapter 11 

Old Friends

Arinoth stared at the pieces on the game board. He contemplated them deeply, apparently oblivious to the actions of his servants around him. He was, however, perfectly aware of all that was happening. One part of his mind was aware of every breath of his butler Mansfred as he arranged the roses in a vase. He was aware, for instance, of the subtle wheeze that would soon develop into a full-blown infection if not treated. He was aware of the subtle shaking of the man's hands that gave away his age. He detected from the small hitch in the man's step that his left leg was beginning to bother him again. 

Mansfred had been in loyal service for more than thirty years, and the one thing that Arinoth was not aware of, could not yet detect, was whether or not the man was a traitor. There was a traitor in the organization – someone who had sent confidential information to the California Congressman, Jackson Greene, that led to his interference in Project Eve. And while Arinoth could know every breath and step that Mansfred took inside this house if he chose, he could not see inside the man's heart. 

What was more important was that the same was true for everyone that Arinoth trusted. He could know all that they did if he so chose – everyone in the Ring and associated with it. He could not, however, know what they _thought_. Not without some truly invasive measures. Even at that, he would have to guess correctly the first time. Any action to invade the minds of one of his associates would tip off the rest of them, and the guilty would disappear before he could discover the extent of their treachery. Worse, if it was one of the other witches or warlocks, they might be able to bury their deception deep within the folds of magic and escape detection.

He must, therefore, discover the likely traitor surreptitiously, through observation and deduction. Only then could he take the element of surprise and capture them in a web of magic, strip their mind clean, and find out not only what was done, but also who was behind it and who else might be involved.

It was conceivable, of course, that it had been a fringe action. It could have been some minor worker, visitor, or even a patient at the clinic. They might have heard a little, surmised nothing from it, but still sought to warn the Congressman. That was possible, but unlikely. More likely was that it was someone who had associations within the Watcher's Council and who had infiltrated the clinic looking for evidence.

Rivalry among the factions of the Council was ill-disguised. Only the Grand Councilor even knew how many arms of the council existed. Arinoth served at the will of the Council of Magic, which was the most well-known arm. Those whose positions involved the Slayers and, to some extent, the demons, formed another. That, however, accounted for only two arms of the Council. There were others – many others. Like any secret organization, they were divided into cells and had little knowledge of one another. What were their interests? What were their secrets? What did they watch?

Every ambitious Watcher sought those answers of the other cells. That was the way to power; to controlling the whole thing. The discovery of Arinoth's operations by another cell would be notable, and their actions to stop him predictable. Such a one would be expected to wound the project, but not kill it. They would want to take it over and complete it, and gain another cell of power. 

That would explain much, but not everything. It wouldn't explain MacKenzie.

Arinoth continued to stare at the game board. His age was indeterminable. The brown, leathery skin that stretched across his skull was a size too small and creased with wrinkles. His head was bald, betraying neither the white hair of old age nor the dark, thinning hair of middle age. He could be any age from forty to ninety. His eyes, though, which stared at the game board, were ancient. Only when someone looked in his eyes did they begin to realize how old he truly was – how many lifetimes he had lived.

His claw-like hand reached out to pick up one of the game pieces. At first glance, the game seemed to resemble chess, or possibly backgammon. It was, in fact, far older than those. The game of draughts had been played by the Egyptians, and Arinoth had played it when it was still new.

He gazed at the piece in his hand, lovingly carved in the figure of a warrior. He had scratched the name "Mac" at the bottom of it. He contemplated the representation of the rogue commando. He could simply ignite the piece, melt it in his hands, and the same would happen to MacKenzie wherever he was. He would spontaneously combust there in the middle of L.A., and oddity for the back page of the Times and the front page of the Weekly World News.

That, however, would destroy his one thread to the traitor in his midst. Someone had put MacKenzie in play. Someone had moved him onto the board with devastating effect. It could have been simply MacKenzie himself, or the wild interplay of circumstance, that had put that man in that situation. In other conditions, Arinoth would have considered such a possibility and simply eliminated him.

But the presence of MacKenzie and the presence of a traitor were a pair of circumstances, and the Creator of the Ring could not afford to dismiss them as unrelated. If they were related, then it was not some competing watcher who was involved. No other cell leader, not even the Grand Councilor, could have put this piece into play so effectively and so subtly.

That left only one other person on Earth.

Arinoth sighed deeply. His old friend was seeing fit to interfere once more. Arinoth had suspected him on occasion of interference, but had never been convinced of it. This time, however, there was no denying it.

"Anything else, Sir?" Mansfred inquire.

"Yes," Arinoth said without looking up. "There is an envelope on the table. See that it gets mailed immediately." Mansfred left with the letter, oblivious to its deadly contents.

It was time for Sir Radcliffe Holm to die.

* * *

            Sir Radcliffe Holm glanced at the few pieces of mail that his adjunct had set on his desk. He didn't touch them. He never touched his mail right away. Instead, he sat and thought, staring at it. He never got unexpected mail. He'd seen to that. There were three pieces on his desk, and he reasoned what two of them were. 

The large white envelope was the efficiency report from the latest set of fighter tests. He had requested them personally, and had been expecting them. The envelope was the right size, and he quickly detected several other telltale marks that indicated its authenticity.

The small yellow envelope was a check. He would put it in a drawer for several weeks, and then eventually the comptroller would harass him about it and he would deposit it. Later on, he would move the funds through several accounts, until they were in one of his private accounts. From there he would distribute the funds throughout his own private network of operatives. He really hated dealing with money, but the maintenance of his unofficial organization required it – and he required such an organization. There was much he could do from his office in the Government, but stopping an RAF Briagdier General too stupid to see the ramifications of his own secret projects was not one of them – especially when the man had engaged a being as serpentine as Arinoth.

The one on top, though, was troubling. It was a plain envelope, addressed exactly as the others. The postmarks and other indicators were equally as non-descript. It was, however, unexpected. There was nothing he was expecting that could have accounted for it, and that made it suspicious. 

Suspicious was nothing new. He got several suspicious pieces of mail a month. Things he hadn't expected, or which he had but had come from routes he hadn't anticipated. Each one was carefully scrutinized. For most, with sufficient scrutiny, the origin or purpose could be discerned before opening it. For the rest, certain precautions were taken before opening them.

This one was different though. It was exactly what he had been anticipating from one of the many internal departments he had frequent contact with – but he had already received that communication. He had received it yesterday. It was, in fact, the last piece of mail he had handled yesterday.

He called it up in his minds eye. He recalled everything about it: every smudge of dirt on the envelope; every crease and exactly how the corners were nicked; even the slight skew to the stamp. When he had that image firmly fixed in his mind, he looked down at the envelope on his desk. It was the same – exactly, in every detail, the same.

His mind raced through the possibilities. It was inconceivable that two envelopes should arrive that were exactly the same, down to every smudge of dirt. It was likely, then, enchanted with a chameleon spell of some kind. The fact that it had cloaked itself as the last bit of mail he had previously touched was all but confirmation of that. Had it been something he had touched a week or a month ago, he wouldn't be so sure – his memory was not what it used to be, and he would've doubted his own recollection. But such was the nature of these spells, the need for proximity in place of possession. The sender didn't possess an envelope of his from a week or month ago, so the spell must take its form from something in its proximity – the last thing he'd previously handled.

Given that his conclusion was valid, he needed to reason through who and why. It was obviously a powerful magician. One who wished to communicate with him without being face to face. There could be any number of reasons for that. There were few enough magicians in the world who even knew of his existence. Of those, who would want to communicate with him this way? And who would want to disguise it?

The answer came instantly, with painful clarity. Arinoth. This was letter-bomb, or the magical equivalent of one, sent by his old companion. Arinoth, then, had deduced Sir Radcliffe's role in the unraveling of his plan. He probably thought that, with Sir Radcliffe out of the picture, the mole in his organization would attempt to contact or even aid MacKenzie. That would expose the mole to Arinoth's wrath.

Sir Radcliffe sniffed. Arinoth was hardly giving him credit. The only person who knew anything to connect MacKenzie with himself was Sheffield. He had given the order directly to Sheffield, in this office. No one else, not even the mole, knew that MacKenzie had been Sir Radcliffe's decision. His death would not give Arinoth the wedge the old magician thought it would. It would accomplish nothing at all for him, except remove Sir Radcliffe from his consideration.

That was why Sir Radcliffe had to give Arinoth exactly what he wanted.

After carefully reflecting on the entire problem, Sir Radcliffe checked his watch. He had spent too much time considering the problem. Arinoth would know when the envelope had been delivered – the magic would tell him that. Any more time spent thinking about it and Arinoth would become suspicious. Sir Radcliffe knew that he must move quickly. He picked up the phone and buzzed his adjunct.

"Bill, please run down to the cafeteria and get me banana." He said. "Make sure it doesn't have too much brown on it. But not too much green, either."

            "Yes, Sir," the young man in the next office replied. He got up and left the office, headed for the elevator. Before he was even halfway there, the hall was rocked by an explosion. Sir Radcliffe's office, and his own, had been destroyed by some kind of blast.

  



	12. Chapter 12 Fall Back and Regroup

**  
** Chapter 12 

Fall Back and Regroup

            "We don't have a lot of time," Angel said sharply.

            "We're all aware of that," Wesley replied through a yawn. "You don't need to snap at us."

            "Sorry," Angel mumbled, clearly not actually sorry, but wanting to keep the peace. It had been a long night. Everyone had been going for twenty-four hours straight. They were losing the ability to think straight. Actually, he and MacKenzie had been going for nearly forty-eight hours. MacKenzie was, quite literally, soldiering on through it. Angel was running on his reserves of supernatural strength. But it was clear that soon all of them would collapse.

            In other circumstances, Angel would have sent them all to bed. There was no trail from the clinic for them to follow. They were no closer to figuring out where Sheffield and his team were. And they were all losing the ability to function. 

            But other circumstances didn't include Kate and Cordelia being attacked, and Kate kidnapped by Lilah and some unknown demon. That was a different set of circumstances – ones that called for them to take some immediate action. Unfortunately, no one could think of anything to do.

            They had arrived back at the hotel at nearly four in the morning. Kate was missing and Cordelia still unconscious. With some effort they managed to rouse her, to ask what had happened. She had, of course, been unconscious for the whole thing. But the impressions of the demon Mr. Gray had been strong – strong enough to penetrate into her sleep. With a few halting words, she managed to reconstruct what had happened.

            Angel was at the boiling point. Exhaustion, worry, and a looming sense of failure were taking their toll on him. He was ready to lash out at anyone, and that was dangerous. He had only recently come away from the edge of evil, and its lure was still tempting. He wanted to hurt Wolfram and Hart more than anything, but he couldn't act if he didn't know what he was up against.

            MacKenzie cleared his throat. "May I make a suggestion?" No one openly objected, so he continued on. "We all need rest. We need it desperately. If either Faith or Kate is going to have a chance, we need to be at our best. It's five a.m. now. I say we get four hours, right here. If anything changes, we'll all be in the same place and can move out quickly."

            "I'm not going to sleep while Kate might be dying," Angel growled.

            "Kate's fine," MacKenzie replied soothingly.

            "You don't know that!" Angel shot back. "You don't know anything. How do we even know that you're on our side?"

            "Hold on here," Gunn started, but Wesley held up his hand to stop him. Angel needed to get this out; and the rest of them needed to hear MacKenzie's answers.

            "It's a fair question," Mac responded slowly, considering his answer. "But I'll ask one first. What did Lorne say about me?"

            "What makes you think he said anything?" Angel immediately replied. Mac, in response, simply cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. Angel knew that playing dumb on that point would be useless. Only a rank amateur would not have asked Lorne about him. "He said we could trust you."

            "All right, then, trust me on this," Mac replied. " 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.' In this case, it's that bunch of lawyers you all seem to hate." He waited for the thought of teaming up with Wolfram and Hart to sink in. From the unpleasant looks on everyone's faces, he could tell it had. "That mysterious demon, who's probably the same one who had a talk with your buddy Spike – "

            "Spike's not my buddy," Angel replied reflexively.

            "Right then," Mac conceded, his patience straining. "Anyway, this demon doesn't want to offend the Powers. That's significant. And from what Cordelia told us, he's the one calling the shots here. He's not going to hurt Kate – at least not until he's gotten what he wants."

            "I see," Wesley said. "He's going to hold her hostage to make sure that we don't hesitate to stop Sheffield."

            "That's right," Mac nodded.

            "And after that?" Angel asked.

            "The way I see it," Gunn chimed in, "we just need to make sure that there is no 'after that' where they're concerned."

            "Exactly," Mac nodded. "And that means …"

            "That everyone needs to get some sleep," Angel finished. "You'd better be right about this."

            "Whether I am or not, we have no choice," Mac supplied back. "I expect that they'll contact us in the morning."

            "Okay then," Wesley nodded. "We should each grab a room."

            "Um …" Angel hesitated. "The maid hasn't been through in a few decades, so that might prove a little bit of a problem."

            "We just need a soft place to sleep for a bit," Wesley replied. "Then we take turns in your room for showers."

            "I'll put Cordelia up in my bed," Angel said. A couple pairs of eyes turned on him. "Guys," he said, defensively. "I'll sleep on the couch." He thought for a minute. "There's a couple of good beds in the next room, I'll show you."

            "That just leaves Mac," Cordelia said. "I could always share …" Her attraction to the muscular Scotsman was thoroughly undisguised. 

            "I don't think that will be necessary," Wesley said, pointing. MacKenzie had lain down on the lobby sofa and was, to all appearances, already asleep.

            Cordelia sighed. "This girl just has no luck," she muttered to herself, as they all walked off. On the lobby couch, Mac smiled, and then allowed slumber to fully claim him.

* * *

            Angel shot out of the couch, awareness flooding over him in a tidal wave. He looked around franticly. Cordelia wasn't in the bed. Panic began to rise in him. The memories of his dream came flooding back.

            He hadn't intended to go to sleep at all, but the early dawn had claimed him. It was, to some extent, the siren song of his species. Dawn called him to sleep and took him captive with iron bands. Before he could compose himself to resist, slumber had caught him and dragged him into oblivion.

            The embrace of sleep was different for a vampire than for a human. As one who'd once been dead, but was now undead, sleep was a memory of death. The eternal slumber, safe and secure in the confines of the earth, was echoed each day in the vampire's sleep. The eternal sleep was both temptation and terror for the undead; sleep was both pleasure and pain.

            Every vampire remembered the peace of death; the gentle security of the eternal night. They remembered it and longed for it. But to give in to it would mean an end to their existence. Every day, sleep reminded them of that.

            Some, it was said, had simply chosen to go to sleep and never wake. Having grown weary of their unlife, they had simply slipped back into the eternal slumber, at peace once again. Angel couldn't imagine that. The terror that waited for him just below consciousness – the thought that he might truly not wake up again – was too much. It kept him from ever sleeping too deeply. Usually, it kept him from dreaming too much.

            Tonight, though, not even the terror of sleep was enough. His exhaustion had betrayed him, and he slipped right past all the reluctance and straight into the dreamscape of his mind. All his fears were made manifest there.

            The dreams which caught him up that night were not ones of death, so much. He had simply found himself alone in the world. Completely, utterly alone. No one else existed on the entire planet. It was disconcerting, but not terrifying. But then he began to find his friends.

            One by one he'd run into them. He'd walk around a corner and there they'd be. Surprise would flood over him; they would embrace. They would turn to walk and then, as soon as he looked away for even a moment, they'd be gone. 

            He ran into Faith first, and she disappeared. Then Kate. Then Cordelia. Then Wes and Gunn. And then Buffy. Each encounter was driving him to panic. That's when things turned ugly.

            He ran into Faith again. This time, though, she was terrified. "Don't take your eyes off me," she had begged. "Don't let them take me again." He hadn't. He'd kept his eye on her without even blinking – until they ran into Kate. She too begged him to watch her, and when turned towards Kate, Faith disappeared again. And in his panic to find Faith, Kate disappeared.

            Then he woke – and Cordelia wasn't there.

            He leapt from the couch and ran to the door. He jerked it open, ready to yell for Gunn and Wesley in the next room. The words died on his lips. Cordelia was standing in the doorway, her hand raised to knock. "Cordelia!" Angel exclaimed. He bent and hugged her. "I'm so glad to see you." He held her tightly.

            "Okay," she said slowly. "Um, no offense, because I know it's been like four house since I saw you, too – but, uh, linen here." 

Angel pulled away, realizing that he was taking it much more seriously than she was. Of course, she hadn't had the dream. He took a long look at her and watched as she tried to smooth any wrinkles out of her fresh linen outfit. "You changed," he blurted.

"Like I was going to go another day in the sewer clothes. Right!" She waved him away. "Gunn ran me over to my apartment, and we stopped at the bakery on the way back."

"More bear claws?" he inquired hopefully.

"Wes got there first," she replied. Seeing him frown, she added, "But there's jelly."

"Powdered sugar?"

"There's another kind?" Cordelia was genuinely perplexed by the thought.

"Okay." Angel ran his hand through his hair. He was quickly coming to grips with reality, leaving the dream behind. He had, apparently, slept much later than any of the others. "Let me get a quick shower, and I'll join you guys downstairs. Save me a jelly."

"Uh, no time for that." Cordelia smiled up at him hopefully. "We have a problem."

"Someone else missing?" he asked, a small half-laugh escaping him.

"No," Codelia responded. "Someone else here. With blue uniforms."

"Cops?"

"No, the Maytag repair man." She slapped him in the arm. He flinched involuntarily, then quickly covered back his machismo. "Of course cops. They want to talk to you."

"Tell them I'm not here," he said.

"Too late," she replied.

He rolled his eyes. "Who was clueless enough to not cover for me? I mean …" he saw her frowning at him. "You?"

"My job description does _not include lying to the police," she responded sternly. Her eyes were murderous._

"I'll be right down," he replied meekly.

"I thought so," she said. Turning on her heel, she stalked down the hall. Stalking was the only word for it. She didn't run, or really walk – it was more that every step communicated how upset she was with him.

"Go figure," he muttered and then followed.

Downstairs, two plain-clothed policeman stood in the lobby waiting. They eyed the other occupants of the lobby suspiciously. The also eyed the donuts enviously. "Can I help you?" Angel asked when he was halfway down the stairs. One part of his mind noted that the 'blue uniforms' in Cordelia's description was figurative, not literal – not that it really mattered.

One of the men, wearing a non-descript and well-worn suit, walked towards the stairs. "You Angel?" he asked brusquely.

"Who wants to know?" he responded, not slowing his descent. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he pushed past the officer and went to hunt through the donuts.

"You getting smart with me?" the officer postured.

"Me?" Angel asked through a bit of Jelly donut. "Never. But I haven't seen any ID yet."

The other officer – more rotund and less stern than the first – walked over and smiled. "I'm Morton. This is Daniels." He produced a badge for Angel's inspection. "If you're Angel, we wanted to ask you some questions."

"What about?" he responded through another mouthful.

"A girl named Faith. You know her?" Morton asked.

"That's a matter of public record," Angel responded noncommittally. "Is there a reason that you're asking?"

"She's escaped from prison. Do you have any idea where she is?" Daniels face flushed red. It was obvious that he was the 'bad cop' of this duo, but from the looks of him the role came naturally. Angel contemplated briefly whether or not he should point out that life filled with anger would only lead to health problems later. Seeing the glare from the officer, he decided it wouldn't be welcome advice.

"I haven't a clue," Angel responded.

The two cops looked at one another for a moment. Then Daniels moved closer. "You were seen with Kate yesterday asking questions about Faith." Angel shrugged and offered no reply. "Kate's missing. You wouldn't happen to know where _she_ is, would you?"

Angel looked at the others for a moment, making sure they were all on the same page. They would do nothing to endanger Kate. That meant they need to handle this without involving the cops. He opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted before he could respond.

"Don't answer that!" a voice said from the lobby door. The man standing there was wearing a silk suit and carrying an alligator briefcase. He had a broad face and a cocoa complexion, his short, black curlly hair just beginning to gray at the temples. He was wearing both cops' annual salaries on his wrist. He stepped down the lobby steps and walked towards the group. He stopped and addressed the officers. "Unless you want to charge someone here, the questioning is over."

"Who are you?" Daniels asked, moving menacingly towards the new addition to the tableau. He didn't like lawyers, and he didn't like celebrities. The fact that this guy looked a lot like Johnny Cochrane put him on the bad side of both lists.

The newcomer pulled out a business card and handed it to him. "Wilmington. I'm from the law firm of Wolfram and Hart." He paused for effect. "And I'm representing Angel Investigations."

  



	13. Chapter 13 Strange Bedfellows

**  
** Chapter 13 

Strange Bedfellows

Angel and his team shuffled into the opulent conference room located high in the Wolfram and Hart office building. The view of downtown L.A. was extraordinary. Angel also noted that the windows had a coating dark enough that he could stand in the patch of sunlight and only smolder. It was painful, true, but it so disconcerted the representatives of the law firm that he simply stood there enjoying it. __

Gunn walked up next to him. "Nice view," he commented.

"I think I can see my office from here," Angel supplied.

"I meant you," Gunn responded, cocking an eyebrow. "You trying to dry clean that thing from the inside or something?"

"Not exactly," Angel replied. "Are they keeping their distance?"

"Yeah, they're on the other side of the conference room." Gunn was quick to catch onto Angel's tactics. "I don't think we have much time before this party begins, though."

"Fine. I had a dream last night …" Angel began.

"Is this planning or therapy?" Gunn wisecracked.

"Anyway, it became clear to me that if I try to rescue both Faith and Kate they're both going to die."

"So we split up?" Gunn nodded. He was going to suggest just that sort of approach himself. As much as he disliked Angel – and demons in general, truth be told – he respected him as a tactician. "Wes and I already worked it up."

"Really? Huh." Angel nodded. He was both impressed and irritated. He was impressed that they had come up with the same plan that he had. He was, however, irritated that they had come up with the same plan that he had.

"We gotta hang with you, though, for awhile. After we get sent after Faith, Wes and I will double back and get Kate. But we have to figure out where she's being held."

"She's being held here," Angel said confidently. "Probably in Lilah's office. Have you got a plan to get up there?"

"We just figured we'd ask nicely," Gunn replied. "By the way, you're starting to really get _ripe_." Gunn flicked away the smoke that was beginning to billow from Angel. Before anyone could say anything else, the door to the conference room opened. 

Gunn and Angel turned to see Lilah, her assistant, and Mr. Gray enter. Lilah looked around confidently, taking in the scene with satisfaction. It was clear that she was enjoying this. Angel and his team affected bored expressions.

"Well, well, well," Lilah said, looking them over. "Isn't this cozy? I'd like to say that I've always looked forward to this moment, but since you're all still breathing that would be a lie, wouldn't it?" The brutality of the statement was in stark contrast to the saccharine sweetness of her tone of voice. She moved around to take a seat at the head of the table. "Please sit down," she gestured to the chairs surrounding her. "Oh, and for the comfort and safety of others, please, no smoking. That includes you, too, Angel." She smiled wickedly at her own humor.

All those gathered took seats. Once out of the sunlight, the amount of smoke being produced by Angel and his clothes diminished considerably. By unconscious consent, the law firm staff was arranged on one side of the table, while Angel and his team was on the other. Angel sat opposite Lilah at the other end.

"Now then," Lilah began officiously, "we have something you want. Let's just get that here on the table. Kate is fine. Well, reasonably fine. Let's just say that there's nothing she won't recover from. We'll be happy to let you have her, on one condition."

"Let me guess, you want us to get Faith back." Angel shrugged. "We were going to do that anyway."

"Yes, well, there's more to it than that." She gestured over to Mr. Gray seated at her left. "Our esteemed colleague here would like to make sure that whatever plans are in place for Faith, that they don't get executed." She paused a moment, smiling, and then pointed back at herself. "However, seeing as how Faith is still, technically, under contract to Wolfram and Hart, we'd like to get our employee back." She waited for a response and got none. "And, as an added bonus, we'd like to kill that little band of thieves who've been giving us so much trouble.

"So, here's the full meal deal. First, you go get Faith. Second, you bring one of _our_ assault teams with you and help them shoot the sons-of-bitches who have your girl. Third, and most importantly, you turn Faith back over to us. That's the deal. And if you fail in any part of it, Kate becomes a skeleton in your personal closet – and I mean that literally.

"So, unless you'd like to have a really uncomfortable visit with those two cops we rescued you from, I'd suggest you do as we ask." Lilah folded her hands in front of her, smiling her most business like smile. Her eyes, however, sparkled with glee.

"What assurances do we have that even if we do what you ask you'll keep your end of the bargain?" Wesley maintained a business like tone, although his eyes shifted uncomfortably. These were cold-blooded killers he was dealing with, only cloaked in a veneer of civility. He had to keep that in mind at all times.

"Assurances?" she responded. "Well, we could do a contract in blood, if you like. That'll take awhile, though, what with all the sections and subsections and such. I wouldn't think that you'd want to waste that kind of time. Why don't we just shake on it?"

"I didn't think snakes could shake hands," he replied simply.

"Touché, my dear," she replied. "If you weren't so goody-two-shoes, you might actually be amusing for an hour or two." Her predatory glance suggested something other than conversation. "Looks like you're just going to have to trust us. Do we have a deal?"

"We don't trust any of you," Angel replied before Wes could. "But I don't see that we have any other choice in the matter. Of course, since we have no idea where they are, I can't see how this will end well for any of us." Angel smiled back at her. He was calling their cards. The team needed to see what they knew, get some sort of clue to go on, in order to figure out how to proceed.

It was Mr. Gray that replied. "I scanned your companion's memories," he stated simply, with no emotion of even conception of the type of violation this would be viewed as. She was to him, simply, a tool. "Before we arrived at your residence, she was reviewing other police activity from that evening. It seems that she was particularly intrigued by the theft of a large diesel generator. In her mind, she saw a connection between it and the need to operate medical equipment.

"We have, of course, already learned about the theft of the medical equipment from the Jackson Street Clinic. To what end we have not yet been able to determine." Wesley studiously avoided looking at anyone. He had taken the chart from the clinic when they had left in order to prevent anyone else from deducing the point of the experiment. It looked as though his ploy had worked.

"It seems to us," Lilah continued, picking up the thread, "that if we find the generator, we find the hideout … and Faith."

"That's all well and good," Wesley replied. "However, the presumed connection between the two is tenuous, at best."

"Kate didn't think so," Lilah replied. "I think you should maybe trust her on this. After all, it's her life on the line. Besides, what else have you got to go on?"

"But how do we expect to find it?" he countered. "The dot-com boom has resulted in every office building between here and Pasadena having backup generators."

Lilah looked over at one of the other firm representatives, held his gaze for a moment to consider, and then nodded. The man nodded back to her and then turned to address the rest of the room. "We know where it was stolen from, and how it was transported. Given those two things, we have some … _friends, let's just say … who can track it down once night falls. That whole operation is getting in place right now. It should be able to pinpoint the location a couple of hours past dusk."_

"There, are you satisfied?" Lilah asked. She didn't wait for a response. "In the meantime, I suggest you eat, and change, and get ready for the evenings' festivities."

"We're free to go, just like that?" Angel inquired.

Lilah cocked his head at him. "Don't be silly," she said, smirking at his naiveté. "You'll stay right here where we can keep an eye on you. I assure you, our facilities are first rate."

* * *

"Not exactly a first rate facility," Faith commented to the soldier next to her. She contemplated the crude shower room that had been made. They had simply put a canvas curtain around an area that featured a faucet head in the wall. Luxury had been bought by running a hose from the faucet and over a piece of metal whose function was anyone's guess. The hose hung down to head height, and thus the space could be termed a 'shower facility.' She had no doubt that it would feature one temperature – cold.

She looked it over for a moment, and then back at the man escorting her. He was like all the rest of them around. They all dressed in matching black outfits. They had uniformly cut hair. They all had the same manner of speak and action. They were perfect little tin soldiers, and for the hundredth time Faith considering snapping one in half. As soon as the thought entered her mind, though, it was dismissed. These were her _friends, after all._

The dismissal didn't come from inside her, though. It was impressed upon her. But it was firm, and she didn't have the strength to fight it. What did it matter, anyway? She liked the idea of having friends. She didn't have many. She should keep these. Besides, there were plenty of people she could snap in half if she so chose. Other people. Not her friends.

She shook her head as the thoughts continued to course through her brain. She couldn't really tell where they came from, only that it was easier to trust them. She had no problem doing that. She could just trust those thoughts. For now.

She waited a moment longer for him to leave. Seeing as he didn't move, she shrugged. "Tell me one thing," she said huskily. "Are you guarding me, or do you just like to _watch_?" He said nothing.

Seeing that she wasn't going to provoke a reaction, she turned away from him and quickly stripped, leaving her prison clothes in a pile on the floor. She had been subjected to far worse indignities than this during her time 'inside'. She simply buried her pride and embarrassment deep inside herself and went to the faucet. An ice cold cascade began falling from the hose.

Hanging on the faucet was bucket containing a sponge and a bar of soap. She retrieved them and placed herself under the cascade of water. Shaking her head to flip her hair back, she turned to see if her guardian was enjoying himself. He wasn't there, though. It would never have occurred to her that his only job was to make sure she didn't remove the amulet.

Seeing as how she was now alone, she set herself more diligently to the task at hand. She had spent what felt like years in a fevered sweat, the effect, so she was told, of the demons' toxins. She wasn't sure, but then again she didn't have to be. _She just had to trust her _friends, the voice in her head whispered. Shrugging away any doubts, she single-mindedly began washing the stink away. The cold water felt good against her. Once she had overcome the breathless shock of it, she felt the tingle in her skin. As she scrubbed she felt more and more invigorated. 

It also was becoming increasingly clear that she was free. She was out of the stinking hell-hole of her life. If she could find a way to get a fresh start, she thought she might be able to do something with her life. She wasn't sure what, yet.

Sunnydale was out of the question. That much was fixed. She couldn't show her face there even if she'd wanted to. And she didn't want to. Who'd care to see her? No one, that's who. There was nothing for her there.

Los Angeles was probably out, as well. If she stayed, Angel would track her down and put her back in prison. For a moment she wondered why that would be bad. This was all about taking responsibility for yourself; for paying back your debt to society. She knew that was a good thing. It was something she'd wanted to do. Why didn't she want that any longer?

Again, the thoughts began to invade from outside her. They carried deeper into her brain with every beat of her heart. She was special. She was a Slayer. She was much too special to waste away in prison. She nodded at that. She was special. Believing that was so easy; going back to prison would be so hard.

Besides, she realized. She could just hang with the boys who'd rescued her. They'd be going places. They'd be doing things. Faith was pretty sure that she could be a match for any of them. She could keep up.

The more she thought about it, the more content she became. It was good plan. And staying here would be easy. Escaping would be hard. Being on her own would be hard. But staying here, trusting her new friends – that would be easy.

 _Besides, she thought to herself with a giggle, _they're kinda cute. And it has been a long time since I've had a big, strong man._ No thoughts invaded from the outside at that. The amulet hadn't been taught to respond to that circumstance yet. Had the circle anticipated the kind of trouble Faith could wreak with the opposite sex, it would've been the very first thing they'd counter-programmed._

Her shower finished, she turned the faucet off and returned the sponge and soap to the bucket. She stuck her head outside and saw no one there. On a chair next to the canvas was a stack of clothing. From the look of it, it was the same things the other soldiers were wearing. On top was a rolled up towel. 

Faith retrieved the towel, dried herself, and then put on the clothing they had provided. They hadn't included the proper underthings, but she had no issue with skipping those. The clothes were new, apparently purchased during some supply run. She'd have to see if she could get invited on the next one.

The black pants and tank top fit well enough to cause little complaint. The boots were an even better fit. There was a jacket and a turtleneck with them as well, but in the L.A. heat she didn't think she'd need them. She figured she'd use them if and when she went on any missions.

She paused for a moment as that thought struck her. How did she know there were going to be missions? She shook her head, searching her memory. Her first impulse was that one of the team members had told her, but she couldn't place who or when. She considered some other possibilities, but rejected them as well. It was truly beginning to bother her when she heard a throat clear behind her.

She turned around and smiled at the soldier standing there. He was attempting to smile at her, but his face was betraying a unique combination of embarrassment and arousal. Faith realized how she must look in the outfit, especially considering the missing pieces. A tight black tank top and no bra – Faith knew for a fact that she looked awesome. She smiled back at him seductively.

"What can I do for you, …" she motioned for him to supply his name.

"Johnson," he supplied.

"Ooh, good name," she said, the innuendo obvious.

"I just came to see if you were done and if you needed anything else."

She arched an eyebrow. "Oh yes, there's definitely something else I need." She crooked a finger at him, and Michael Johnson followed.

* * *

"Is there anything else you need?" Sheffield inquired of the Doctor.

"No," he replied. "I think we have everything we need." The Doctor examined his well manicured nails with an air of boredom. He was not happy to be here, working with these 'brutish' men. But the work of the Ring was more important than his personal comforts and conveniences. That didn't mean he had to make friends with them.

"When then?" Sheffield asked. Sheffield felt no particular need to be cordial to the man. He clearly didn't respect the soldiers. Sheffield suffered the man because he had orders to – he wasn't about to do anything more.

"Tonight. Midnight." The Doctor replied absently. "We will prep her then, kill her by 12:30, and then revive her several minutes later."

"And that will be enough to call a new Slayer?" Sheffield asked, wanting to make sure nothing had been overlooked.

"Not that it is any of your concern, but yes, it will be enough."

"And the Ring is confident that they can get to her first?"

"Of course," the Doctor looked up from beneath his brows, evaluating whether or not the Major deserved any answers. He sighed, deciding that, for now, his cooperation was important, and that more information would be more help than hurt. "We have deeply infiltrated the Watchers who monitor the Slayers. We will know when they know. We will have her when they do."

"And what of this one?" Sheffield asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of Faith's quarters.

"We will bring her with us to England. There, she will be the first among our new army. She will teach the others to fight; she will teach them what it means to be a Slayer." The light of fanaticism lit the Doctor's eyes.

"Why don't we just pull out now and do this operation in England?" Sheffield was all for risk minimization. He knew he was being hunted, and he saw no good reason not to institute an orderly withdrawal.

"There's too much that could go wrong. We'd rather start the process now, and get the next Slayer in hand before we attempt to extract Faith." The response was cautious.

_Too cautious, thought Sheffield. _They're afraid they can't control her, _he reasoned. _They want to get someone younger on their hands – someone more pliable_. __And once they have that, if Faith gets to be too much they can simply get rid of her. His eyes did not betray his appreciation for the ruthlessness of the plan. "So the line will pass to this next Slayer – and you'll do the same operation on her to get the next one."_

"Yes," hissed the Doctor excitedly. "And then the next, and the next, and the next. We will build an army – a _race – of Slayers. All loyal to us, and guided by the Ring of Arinoth." The vision of the power that would bring danced in his eyes. It would be the opportunity to eradicate all of the demons from this planet. And with amulets to control all the slayers, they could be relied on to get rid of any __humans who might get in the Ring's way, as well. With a Slayer army, the Ring of Arinoth could rule the Earth._

"So Faith's to be the mother of this new race, huh?" Sheffield nodded. He finally understood why they called it 'Project Eve.'

  



	14. Chapter 14 Counterplots

**  
** Chapter 14 

Counterplots

"I still don't get the name. Shouldn't it be called Project Faith?" Cordelia turned her perplexed look on Wesley. Wesley looked to Gunn for help. Charles Gunn simply shrugged. "Fine!" Cordelia replied to both of them, holding up her hand palm out. _You can just talk to the hand_, it said. She turned, instead, and batted her lashes at Mac.

MacKenzie smiled back at her, but didn't supply the requested knowledge. Instead, he leaned over and whispered to her. "The room is probably being monitored." Cordelia nodded sagely.

They had, in various order, eaten, slept, and waited. What they really needed to do was reconnoiter – and plan. Unfortunately, both of those options were out of the question as long as they were the 'guests' of Wolfram and Hart. Wes and Angel had managed only a few hushed exchanges. 

The plan, such as it was, was predicated on Kate being held either in or near Lilah's office. If she was being held anyplace else, they were in for a bad time of it. The only other things they were able to agree on were that they needed to go back to the hotel before they took on Sheffield and his men. And, once there, Cordelia would pretend to have a vision. That would be the key to getting her back to Lilah's office.

The only other break in the waiting had been when Mac had requested a first aid kit. He'd needed to rewrap the wound in his shoulder. As soon as it had become apparent that he was going to take his shirt off, Codelia volunteered to help. When the job was done, he left off the sling. His arm was still weak and stiff, but he thought it better to not have it restrained.

They made mostly idle conversation. Mac and Gunn compared opinions on various firearms. Wes and Angel discussed history. Cordy read several magazines, which she used as inspiration to plan a makeover for each of the others. As the sun slipped into a small line on the horizon, tension mounted. The conversations ceased, and they all simply stared and waited.

Without warning, the door to the room opened and man in uniform stepped in. "I'm Captain Corbit," he said by way of introduction. "My men have the scent and expect to have the location pinpointed within an hour. It's time to start getting ready."

"We're going to need to go back to the hotel," Angel said simply.

"Not in the program," Corbit replied.

"Well, lad," Mac said slowly, "I suggest you reset the program. If you expect us to accomplish our end of things, we're going to need our supplies." He paused for a moment. "Or would you rather we, and you, just fail in this little task?"

Corbit attempted to stare them down, but they all calmly returned his gaze. Finally, he pulled out a cell phone and stepped back out of the room. He returned a moment later, a look of dissatisfaction on his face. "All right," he said grimly, "we leave right now. But whatever it is you need to get, you have only a few minutes to get it. Once we have that location identified, you're going in."

Angel smiled. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" Corbit didn't reply.

* * *

            When they arrived at the hotel, Corbit was in an even worse mood. Traffic had been bad, and he felt he was running short of time. "Ten minutes," he yelled as they group entered the lobby. 

            Angel and his team immediately divided up and began grabbing supplies. Along the way, they did a final check-in. "Cordelia set?" Angel asked.

            "She knows her part," Wesley responded. "They'll take us back to Lilah. We'll subdue her and find Kate. When we have Kate, we'll radio you."

            "You're going to need a diversion," Angel advised.

            "It would help, but we haven't got much time to plan one." Wesley looked over his shoulder at their escort. They were beginning to get suspicious.

            "I'll have Gunn set it up," Angel said, and then turned before Wes could contradict him and walked towards Gunn. "Charles," he called out. "I need you to get me my crossbow from the safe downstairs." He put his arm around Gunn and turned him towards the elevator and began walking with him.

            "Give it to me quick," Gunn said, knowing something was up.

            "Wes needs a diversion. I was thinking you should get some friends and make one." Angel pointed to the elevator. "Take it all the way down to the tunnels. By the time they realize you're not coming back, it'll be too late."

            "Got it." Charles began to move forward, then stopped. "Look, they got some hefty demons in that Wolfram and Hart office. I'm not sure I can round up enough boys on short notice to handle that."

            Angel considered for a moment. "Go to Caritas. There's a platinum blonde vampire there playing poker in the back."

            "Spike?" Gunn asked incredulously. "What makes you think he'll help."

            "Well," Angel shrugged uncomfortably. Then inspiration hit. "We'll hire him. Five hundred should get him there."

            "And just where am I going to get five c-notes?"

            "Borrow them form Lorne." Angel slapped Gunn on the back and sent him on his way.

            "Ow! Watch the bloody arm," Mac exclaimed from just behind them. "I've got a lot to do tonight. You think I can do that with you lummoxes just tramping into me like that?" He was yelling at one of Corbit's men – and effectively blocking him from catching up with Gunn, which is where the man had obviously been headed.

            Seeing the elevator door close and Gunn slipping out of their sight, Corbit charged into the room. "What's going on here?" he demanded.

            "He ran into me, the loaf," Mac supplied.

            "Not you – the black one. Where'd he go?" Corbit's face was quickly moving from red to purple. 

            "He went to get my crossbow," Angel replied. "Nothing to worry about. He should be back in a few minutes."

            "We don't have a few minutes," Corbit said. "Get him back here, now!"

            "Okay," Angel said. "Charles!" he yelled out. "Come up." He waited for a moment. "You know," he said, leaning over to Corbit conspiratorially, "I don't think he can hear me from here."

            Before he could reply, another soldier ran up to Corbit and handed him a walkie-talkie. "Go!" he said, mashing down the button. He listened for a moment, nodding. "Got it," he replied to it. He looked up at Angel and Mac. "We've got the location pinpointed. We are rolling _right now_. If you're man isn't up here by the time we reach that door, you're just going to be short one." He turned and marched towards the entrance. "Bring 'em" he called back over his shoulder.

            Mac, Wes, Angel and Cordelia were roughly shoved towards the entrance and told to get moving. With small protests, they began heading for the door. Just as they reached the stairs, Cordelia cried out and pitched backwards.

            Wesley caught her as she fell and laid her slowly to the ground. "She's having a vision," he called out to everyone. While Cordelia murmured incoherently, he leaned close to her, appearing to listen. After moment, he whispered to her, "Allright, pass out now." With a final cry, she went limp.

            Wes looked up the crowd on the stairs. "She said the back door of the hideout is wired to blow. If you go through it you'll be killed instantly."

            "Good to know," Mac said nonchalantly.

            "Allright," Corbit snapped. "Let's get a move on."

            "But we can't bring her with us like this," Angel said, gesturing to Codelia's prostate form.

            "It's hard enough, what we're going to do," Mac added in. "We can't be carrying the wounded around with us."

            "Get her up!" Corbit insisted. "Barker, smelling salts, now."

            "I wouldn't advise that," Wesley warned gravely. "The visions are very powerful and leave her incapacitated. Trying to wake her forcibly could bring uncontrolled mystical forces into play. We simply have no way of knowing what will happen."

            "Well I can't leave her here," Corbit snapped. "I've already lost one of you, and I'm running out of both time and patience."

            "Why don't you check with your boss?" Angel suggested.

            "Don't think I won't," Corbit hissed back. He pulled out a cell phone and punched the speed-dial. "Lilah?" he said into the phone. "Corbit here. We've lost the gang-banger, and the chick just had a vision and is passed out." He listened for a moment. "Fine," he said, and slapped the flip-phone closed. "Simmons, bring her back to the office. Lilah will put her with the other one."

            "I have to go with her," Wesley said. "I won't allow you to take custody of her in this condition. There's no telling what you animals might do."

            "Look, geek, I'm only going to go through this once – "

            "Do we have time for that?" Mac asked, interrupting.

            "I didn't think so," Angel replied. "Besides, Wes isn't much good in a fight." He looked over at Corbit. "Don't mind us," he said, gesturing to Mac. "We'll just talk amongst ourselves while you lecture."

            "Simmons!" Corbit yelled. The fact that the soldier named Simmons was standing right next to him didn't seem to matter. "Bring the geek and the broad back to the office. And if he gives you any trouble, shoot him."

            "What about the other one?" Simmons asked.

            "Do as you're told," Corbit said, turned, and marched out. Angel winked at Wes, and the two teams separated.

* * *

            The patrons of Caritas were oblivious to what was happening in the outside world. That was, of course, the whole point of the club. Come in and leave the big, bad world behind. Thus, it was with a great deal of shock that Lorne received the obviously agitated Charles Gunn.

            The host took Gunn over to one corner of the bar and called for a refill on his sea breeze, "… and a Ginger Ale for Captain Crazed, here." Once delivered, Lorne set his penetrating gaze on Gunn. "I don't even need you to hum a few bars to tell that something's very, very wrong. What is it, Charlie Brown?"

            "I'm kinda on a schedule," Gunn replied. "It's all goin' down tonight, and I need to bust a move if I'm gonna do my part."

            "Okay – bust away." Lorne leaned back a bit, prepared for anything.

            "Angel sent me here to pick up a vampire named Spike – " Gunn began.

            "Billy Idol with an overbite," Lorne supplied. "What's up with Angel? He get a new maid and decide the place needed to be dusted up before she gets there?" He was clearly reluctant because of the incident the previous night. He didn't sell his customers out, not even to friends.

            "Nothing like that," Gunn said reassuringly. "This is a plain old, every day throw down, and we need some hired muscle."

            "So you're going to hire him? No ulterior motives." Lorne needed to be sure. "Hum a few bars for me," he ordered. Gunn rolled his eyes but complied. After a moment's concentration, Lorne nodded. "Okay, you're telling me the truth. Although you might've mentioned that you needed to borrow five Franklins." He looked around at the crowd, assuring himself that he wasn't being observed. "Wait here," he said, and went behind the bar.

            A moment later, he handed Gunn the money across the bar, but didn't let go of it. "I'm not a bank, you know."

            "I know," Gunn nodded. Lorne still did not let go of the money. "And I promise to make sure that Angel pays you back," he added with a hint of exasperation. Lorne let go of the bills.

            "Back table. Can't miss him." Lorne turned away to concentrate on the stage and the demon currently doing karaoke on it.

            "Thanks," Gunn said, and then headed to the back of the room. Lorne was right – he couldn't miss Spike. He was propped in a corner with a cigarette hanging at the perfect angle from his mouth. His hand held five cards jauntily, clearly unconcerned with their value. The others at the table stared at theirs.

            Gunn stood a respectful distance for several minutes, not wanting to anger the players by interrupting. Eventually, though, he cleared his throat to get their attention. The poker players ignored him. He cleared his throat again.

            "You might want to get that looked at," Spike said without looking up at him. "It could turn into pneumonia."

            "Yeah, I'll get right on that," Gunn replied. "But first, I need to talk to you."

            "Well, I don't need to talk to you, so piss off." The other poker players laughed.

            "Angel sent me," Gunn said.

            "One of his little cherubs, huh?" Spike finally looked over at Gunn. After a brief inspection, he turned away, bored.

            Seeing that he wasn't getting anywhere, he decided to simply lay it out. "Angel wants to hire you. Five hundred, take it or leave it, right now."

            Spike's head snapped over to Gunn, and then he quickly looked away hoping to cover his interest. "What's he want me to do, swim across a pool of holy water and then lay in a tanning bed while sipping garlic juice?" He snorted at the assessment.

            "Nah," Gunn said. "Nothing like that. I was just goin' to go bust some heads of some folks who've been doing business with the dude who gave you that there wound on your side. He thought maybe you could handle some of the heavy lifting."

            Spike looked back at Gunn again. Then back to his cards. Then back to Gunn. "That's it, then? Just bust some heads?" It was impossible for him to hide his interest.

            "Yep. That's it." Gunn nodded.

            "Normally I don't do that for less than a grand," Spike countered. Seeing that the price wasn't going up, though, he plunged ahead. "But seeing as how it's someone I'd just assume eat anyhow, I'll settle for five hundred."

            "Good," Gunn replied. "Let's go."

            Spike looked back at his cards, then at the other demons at the table, and then back to Gunn. He was pretty sure he could play this group for seven fifty if he took his time. Pretty sure, but not positive. Five in the hand was a good deal. Added to that was a chance to vent some of his frustration. He liked that.

            "Fold," he said, throwing his cards down. He stood, picked up his winnings, and walked away with Gunn. On the way out of the bar, he leaned over and whispered, "You know I can't hurt humans, right?"

            "Uh huh," Gunn said. "I think that's why you got the job."

* * *

            Fifteen minutes later, Gunn pulled into the abandoned building that the street gang he'd converted into demon hunters used for its headquarters. He got out of his truck and waved down one of the sentries.

            "Charlie Gunn, what brings you here tonight? You find something that needs to get sent back where it came from?"

            "Yep," Gunn replied. "Tell the others I need some help. Volunteer only."

            "More vamps?" he asked.

            "Better," Gunn replied. "Rich, white lawyers."

            "All right!" the sentry replied, slapping Gunn's hand. Gunn filled him in on the plan and told him where to meet them. Then he climbed back into the truck.

            "You didn't mention me," Spike said accusingly.

            "So?" Gunn replied, starting the truck and peeling out.

            "Well if I have to worry about one of you home boys running me through because he didn't know who's side I'm on, then you can just drop me off and I'll keep the five hundred." Spike reached for the door handle.

            "Don't piss me off, chippy" Gunn said, not taking his eyes from the road. Nothing more needed to be said.

* * *

            Wesley carried Cordelia through the lobby of the Wolfram and Hart offices. He wouldn't allow Simmons or any of the others to touch her, for fear that they would discover that she was faking the vision. The plan, as far as it went, was for them to wait for the diversion that Gunn was going to supply. Then they would subdue the guards and try to find Kate.

            With luck, Kate would be both close by and conscious. Given that, they would affect their escape in the confusion. As plans went, it was one of the worst they had come up with. It stood virtually no chance of succeeding. Unfortunately, it was the best they could do under the circumstances.

            It appeared luck was with them, though, when Simmons checked in with Lilah. "She said to put them with their friend." They were going to be brought right to Kate. It couldn't get any better than this.

  



	15. Chapter 15 Why Do Fools Fall In Love?

**  
** Chapter 15 

Why Do Fools Fall in Love?

            _Could it get any better than this_? Michael Johnson wondered. He lay in the darkness, breathing gently. His arms were wrapped around Faith's sleeping form, their bodies pressed tightly together to fit on a cot that was designed to barely fit one person. The heat of her next to him was intoxicating. 

            _I suppose we could have a proper bed_, he thought to himself. _That would be nice. There were, in fact, a lot of things that could be better. For now, though, he was content merely to have her in his arms. The rest would come later, after they'd completed the rescue mission and they were all safely back in England._

            Slowly, so as not to disturb her, he lifted his arm to look at his watch. It was a quarter to midnight. He sighed. He would be needed on duty soon. He hated to leave her, but he was first and foremost a soldier. _No_, he corrected himself, _he was first and foremost a _man.

            He didn't like to think of himself as a sap, but the only phrase he could think of to describe his feelings was 'love at first sight.' The moment he'd seen her fall through that portal and land in a heap on the floor, he'd been in love. She seemed to him so fragile, so in need of protection. He had immediately fashioned himself her protector.

            It had been frightening for him, at first. Logically, she didn't need his protection. She was a Slayer after all. She could probably take him apart with her eyes closed. And the rest of the team for that matter. If she didn't need a protector, what could he offer her? And what if she didn't want him?

            But she had come to him quite willingly. Their attraction had been instant, mutual, and had flared into life immediately. Their joining had been hot, almost urgent. She had clung to him as they pressed into one another. It was like he was a life preserver and she was drowning. She clung to him, and he buoyed her.

            Then he had carried her to the cot, and she had continued to cling, and he had pulled her close to him. He held her against his chest and told her of his dreams for them. A house in the country; kids. She'd started to cry. He wasn't prepared for that, and he didn't think she had been prepared either. But the tears began sliding down her cheeks and onto his chest.

            She refused to look at him. She just buried her face in his chest and he simply held her. And in the quiet, dark of the night, he began to make plans. He planned their wedding, and a home in the country, and the names of their children. He made plans for their life together. It didn't dawn on him that she might not share his feelings.

            Carefully, he slipped out from beside her and began to search for his clothing in the dark. It wasn't easy – as they were wearing nearly identical black outfits, which were now on a dark floor in a dark room. It would have been almost comical in other circumstances.

            To Faith, though, nothing was comical. She was, to be honest, completely conflicted. The lovemaking had been exactly what she'd been after. She'd wanted, she'd taken. He'd wanted, he'd taken. It had been primal, forceful. They had pressed together so hard that the amulet had left a bruise on his chest. 

            But then, he'd turned so damn tender. _Crap! she thought to herself. _Why did he have to do that? Why didn't he just bum a cigarette and leave?_ The result was something that she simply hated. She'd let her emotions come through. _

            The tears had started, and they burned her cheeks as they fell. Everything was just so screwed up. She didn't want him to be tender with her. She didn't want him to hold her. But she couldn't help herself; she clung to him and let the tears fall. Eventually, she feigned sleep, hoping he would leave.

            _He probably thinks he's in love_, she thought to herself. _Fool!_ Nobody could be in love with her. She didn't get that – she didn't deserve that. Want her? Oh yes. Everyone wanted her. But love? No. Men didn't love her.

            She was relieved when he started to get dressed. She didn't let on that she was still awake. She didn't want to talk to him. She just wanted to be alone. She wished she could just curl up and die.

            _Soon_, a voice told her inside. _You'll get your wish very soon. _The voice frightened her. But it was so soothing as well. It told her what she needed to hear, and all she had to do was listen to it. Believe it. It was so easy to believe that voice.

            His watch beeped. One chime. It was midnight. From beyond, she heard footsteps. There was nothing suspicious about that. Or at least there shouldn't have been. But the voice, the chime, and the footsteps – it was too coincidental, and the effect was foreboding. The voices came closer.

            They were coming for her. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she knew. They were coming for her, and it was time for her to die. The voice tried to reassure her. It became more and more insistent. Faith fought the rising panic. _You'll be all right_, the voice said. _You can trust them_.

            The curtain to her room was pulled aside. Three men stood there. One of them reached over and flipped the light on. The lone, uncovered bulb cast its harsh light over the scene. Faith lay curled into a ball on the cot, a thin blanket wrapped around her body. Johnson stood, half-dressed, his shirt in his hands and a shocked look on his face. In the entrance to the room, Sheffield, Cook, and Jessup stood, their faces grim.

            "What the hell is going on here?" Sheffield snapped. He stared at them. "Johnson?"

            "Sir," Johnson said, and volunteered nothing further.

            "What did you do to her?" Sheffield demanded. "So help me, if you –"

            "He didn't," Faith said absently. "It's fine."

            Sheffield looked from Faith to Johnson and back. She wasn't covering for him; she was simply stating a fact. But he didn't need this kind of complication. He frowned even further.

            Cook cleared his throat. "Shall I escort him someplace safe?" Cook asked. 

            Sheffield nodded. "Good idea. Johnson, attend Mr. Cook. Immediately."

            Johnson didn't like the whole setup. However, it was an order. And he wouldn't get anywhere by arguing. He slipped his shirt over his head and walked past them and out of the room. Cook peeled off and took his elbow, escorting him off.

            "It's time," Sheffield said to Faith.

            "I know," she said. She sat up, the blanket pulled around her body. "A little privacy please?" she said. Sheffield and Jessup turned their backs. Faith reached for her clothes, the voice from the amulet having asserted total control on her. 

* * *

            On the other side of the warehouse they were using for an operations area was an old shipping container. Cook pushed Johnson towards it. "Open it," he ordered. Johnson turned to see if his escort was serious, and noticed that Cook had pulled out his pistol and held it at his side. Johnson complied.

            "Inside," Cook ordered. When Johnson had moved forward, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and tossed them in. "Put'em on," he ordered.

            Slowly, cautiously, Johnson knelt down and grabbed the cuffs. He snapped the cuffs on, his hands in front. He held them up and showed them to Cook. "Happy?" he asked.

            "Am I happy?" Cook sneered back. "You must think you're pretty special, huh?" He pocketed the pistol and stalked forward. "Was she good?" he asked.

            "Jealous?" Johnson sneered back.

            For an answer, Cook threw a punch – lightening fast, deep into Johnson's gut. Johnson collapsed. He followed it up with a strike to the side of the head. It didn't bother him that his opponent was handcuffed. He actually preferred it that way.

            He stalked aside and glared down at Johnson. "She was mine!" he screamed. Frustration played a symphony over his facial expressions. In a sudden burst of anger he stepped forward and leveled a kick into Johnson's kidney.

            Cook's agitation boiled up inside of him. "I saw her first," he wheezed out at Johnson. "You lousy thief. You pig. She was mine!" Another step, another kick leveled into his supine victim.

            Johnson coughed and spat out blood. "She's not a piece of property, you know." He only managed a horse whisper.

            "Really?" Cook replied. "I think maybe Mikey likes it. I think maybe Mikey doesn't know what he's dealing with." Cook leveled another blow on Johnson, and then grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head up. "She's nothing but a piece of _meat_. She's a freak, you understand. A freaky piece of meat that has only one purpose: to breed other freaky pieces of meat for us to use." He threw Johnson's head down and stalked away.

            "And I suppose you want to be the stud they breed her with?" Johnson squeezed out, gasping for breath.

            "You'd think that, wouldn't you?" Cook said. "I watched her shower, you know. Her body is amazing. But I wouldn't have a child with that _mistake_." He walked slowly around Johnson, deciding how much to taunt him. Cruelty overcame discretion. "You know how to breed a Slayer?" he asked, not expecting an answer. "You kill her." He laughed as Johnson looked up at him. "Yep," he said. "You kill her, and another one is called. You do it nice and hospital like, so you can bring her back if you decide to. And then you'd have two." 

He laughed again as Johnson's face went from disbelief to horror. "Of course, this one's been with you. I think that makes her not worth bringing back."

* * *

            "She's like a zombie," Sheffield grunted. The Doctor looked up at him from the table across the room. Sheffield was waving his hand back and forth in front of Faith's face. Faith, garbed now in a hospital gown, stared forward unblinking. 

            "She'll not respond," the Doctor replied. "I used a particularly potent sedative. It will keep her like that for awhile."

            "Will that be a problem? I mean, will it affect your ability to bring her back?" Sheffield didn't particularly care one way or the other. He did, though, want to have an idea of what the outcome would be. He would need to report the mission status soon. 

            "Her Slayer metabolism can handle it," the Doctor replied. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to finish the preparations." The Doctor held up a set of electrodes and tubes that ran from a sophisticated piece of machinery on the cart next to him. "We can discuss it more after we are ready to proceed," he said.

            Sheffield knew that he was being dismissed. He nodded to Jessup, however, indicating that the man was to stay and keep and eye on things. He turned to leave. On a chair by the door was piled Faith's clothing. On top of the pile was the Amulet of Arinoth – their sole control over the supernatural wild child.

            "Shouldn't she have this on?" Sheffield said, indicating the amulet.

            "It is conductive," the Doctor replied. "There is too much risk of fouling this up if she is wearing it." He shrugged. "Don't worry, I will put it back on her before she comes back to consciousness."

            "You're sure about that?" Sheffield said. "Is there any chance that she could revive too soon?"

            "It would take an extreme circumstance to revive her. Even with her Slayer's metabolism, the sedative will keep hold." The Doctor waved his hand flightily in the air to indicate the remoteness of the possibility. "I wouldn't worry about it."

            "I worry," Sheffield replied.

* * *

            "I worry about people like you." Cook continued his taunting of Johnson. "People like you and MacKenzie – people who put their own personal feelings above their duty. You make me sick, you know that?" He shrugged and slowly circled Johnson's inert form. "Now you're going to end up just like that little Scottish miscreant."

            Johnson's mind was running a hundred miles an hour. He had been hurt by Mac's betrayal of the team. It was something he hadn't wanted to even think about. Now, however, it was becoming clear. Mac had figured out that Sheffield and his pets were up to no good. He had tried to stop them. 

            Johnson realized now that he should've trusted MacKenzie. He should've been helping stop Sheffield all along. Anger flared in his eyes. "He knew," he spat out, trying to rise to his hands and knees. "He knew what you were doing, and tried to stop you. That's why Sheffield killed him." It was all over. Mac was dead, and Michael Johnson knew that he would soon be dead also. There was nothing he could do to stop things.

            "That's mostly true," Cook laughed. "I imagine MacKenzie's still kicking around somewhere. Probably in hiding. He can't go back to the SAS – Sheffield saw to that. But he's not dead, no." Cook drew his pistol out and walked slowly up to Johnson. "That's more than I can say for you, though."

            The realization that Mac was still alive sent a shock through Johnson. He knew MacKenzie, and he knew that if Mac was still alive, he'd be close to finding them. He wouldn't have given up and hidden; he'd still be fighting Sheffield. That meant that there was something Johnson could do to turn the tide of this encounter.

            "Say 'bye bye' Mikey," Cook sneered, leveling the pistol at Johnson.

            Years of hand to hand combat training all crystallized in that one moment. Like an electric charge surging through his body, every nerve and muscle Michael Johnson had reacted with blinding speed. In perfect unison, he rolled to his shoulder, spun on it like a pivot, and scissored his legs. Cook hit the floor of the shipping container hard, and the gun went skidding.

            Johnson rolled onto Cook's back, repeatedly driving his knee into the other man's kidney. Cook attempted to throw him off, but Johnson grabbed his tormentor's head between his handcuffed hands and slammed it into the metal floor. Once. Twice. Three times.

            He rose unsteadily to his feet and half-stumbled to where the pistol lay. He reached his hands out for it, but was stopped by Cook's shoulder driving into his back. The two fell to the floor, the gun skittering off to their left. 

            Johnson flung an elbow over his shoulder and connected with Cook's face. The crunch of cartilage and the spray of blood sent Cook moaning and rolling off. Johnson got to one knee and raised his doubled fists high above his head. He slammed them down into Cook's abdomen, causing the man to double over in pain.

            For a brief moment, Johnson considered going for the gun again. A glint of metal on Cook's thigh caught his attention instead. He slid his hands to his opponent's leg and jerked the combat knife free of its sheath. "Don't. Call. Me. Mikey," he spat through gritted teeth. With each word he plunged the knife between Cook's ribs.

            His bruised and aching body wanted nothing more than to collapse. There wasn't time for that, though. He had one more mission to complete. Faith's only hope lay in his reaching MacKenzie.

  



	16. Chapter 16 The Battle Begins

**  
** Chapter 16 

The Battle Begins

            A trickle of sweat ran down Kate's neck as she heard the door handle turn. She'd been on pins and needles for hours – waiting, watching. She had tried to make her escape twice. After the first time, they'd placed a guard in the room with her. The second time had left her with a large bruise and a nearly broken wrist.

            The eyes of the guard traveled to the door, but he didn't move from the point at which he'd stationed himself: back to the wall, across the room from her, baton sitting at the ready across his lap. He wasn't about to give her an inch. He darted his gaze back to her, to make sure she wasn't getting any ideas.

            The door opened, and both of the room's occupants tensed. When more Wolfram and Hart security entered, the guard relaxed. Kate, however, suddenly found her heart in her throat. Was this it, then? Was this the end?

            Then, Wesley and Cordelia entered behind them. Wesley was carrying her, which wasn't a good sign. She should've recovered from her vision by now, or at least Kate reasoned it so. Her first impulse was a burst of hope, but then it quickly sank. They were prisoners, too, just like her.

            "Got a couple more for you to keep an eye on," one of the escorts said. The room guard merely grunted, and the others left.

            Wesley spared the man only a passing glance as he carried Cordelia over to the couch that Kate was sitting on. Kate got up and stepped aside for them. Wes laid Cordy down gently and stayed bending over her.

            Kate leaned down as well. "Is she all right?" she asked in hushed tones.

            "Fine," Wesley replied in a whisper. Dropping his voice still further he added, "Don't worry, she's faking. We're here to rescue you."

            "Huh," was Kate's only reply.

            "Although I must say," Wesley continued, still keeping his voice low, "with only one guard in here I would've expected you to be free by now."

            "I got as far as the fifth floor once," Kate responded. "That's when they put him in here with me. I think I could've gotten past him if he were human."

            "But he's not?" Wes asked, arching an eyebrow.

            "Nope. And I didn't expect that, and that's why I'm still here." Kate shook her head. "If I had known he wasn't human, I would've hit him with something a lot heavier than I did. I didn't want to kill him. Turns out I didn't even phase him."

            "What did you hit him with?" Cordelia asked, trying to remain unconscious-looking, but her curiosity getting the better of the acting job.

            "Vase," Kate replied. "Ming dynasty. Probably genuine and worth more than I make in a year."

            "What happened then?" Wesley inquired. It was important that he get as much data as he could about the creature in the room with them. If it was one he recognized, he'd probably be able to pinpoint a weakness.

            "His eyes turned green and glowed. Red welts erupted all over his face. And he hissed something at me. Sounded like a cross between a lizard and a bear." She shrugged. "Then he nearly broke my wrist and slugged me. He's been sitting there like that ever since."

            "Tologra warrior," Wesley muttered. "Very tough. Probably the safest thing to do is to put a knife in the back of his skull, just at the base of it." He shrugged. "Unfortunately, we don't seem to be carrying one right at the moment."

            "Speak for yourself," Cordelia whispered. "Look in my handbag."

            Kate surreptitiously opened Cordelia's purse and drew out a long, thin ice pick. Carefully palming it, she passed it to Wesley, who slid it up the sleeve of his shirt.

            "When did you grab my N'Tau knife," he asked curiously.

            "The other night," Cordelia said. "I was running late for a date and needed to put my hair up. I mean, I can't wear my hair down with that red dress. It just doesn't look right. So anyway, I was looking for some hair pins or something, and I asked you, and you just waved at your desk and told me anything you had would be in there."

            "So you took a four thousand year old ritual execution tool on a date?" It's tough to communicate wry disapproval through whispers, but Wesley was somehow able to do it. It was, however, completely lost on Cordelia.

            "A girl's gotta look right," she said simply.

            "Score one for vanity," Kate muttered. She looked back over at the guard, who watched them ceaselessly but made no move to break up the discussion. "Okay, how do we do this?" she asked.

            "We wait," Wesley said.

            "For what?" Kate was tired of waiting.

            "I think we'll know it when it happens." Wesley replied, barely hiding his own nervousness over the setup.

* * *

            "Here goes nothing," Gunn muttered. He revved the engine of his truck, nodded to the vehicles to the left and right of them, and then gave the signal. One flick of his lights, and across the parking lot another vehicle was on the move.

            There were a lot of things folks could say about a Hummer. How they got to be so popular among people in cities, Gunn had no idea. They are very big, very expensive, and impossible to park. Unless you were headed into the jungle, they just weren't that practical. But folks with too much money and ego loved them. And if there's one thing that Wolfram & Hart had a lot of, it was people with too much money and ego.

            With that in mind, Gunn and his gang had no problems finding three different ones in the parking lot to choose from. They chose the bright yellow one for three reasons. First, because it was the most offensive looking of the three. Second, because the back window had a Harvard Law School sticker in it. But mostly it was because the license plate read 'SLDMYSL'.

            "I hope your soul was worth it, pal," Gunn said to no one in particular. "'Cause in another three seconds your Hummer's going to be totaled, and I'm pretty sure Nationwide ain't gonna reimburse you."

            There are a couple of other things you could say about Hummer's as well. One, they're able to climb the big staircases in front of large office buildings with ease. Two, they plow through glass doorways like they weren't even there. And three, when you load them up with gas cans and a couple sticks of dynamite, they blow up really, really well.

            The demolition of the lobby was not total. It was, however, enough to get the attention of absolutely everybody in the building. That included the demon guarding Wesley, Cordelia, and Kate. As the explosion reverberated through the building, he jumped up and headed for the window. The glow of flames could be seen, as well as the convergence of vehicles.

            Alarms began to blare throughout the building. Most of the workers were gone this late at night. Of those that were still there, most made no attempt to leave. They didn't get paid to flee. Besides, they'd probably be killed if they did.

            Extra security was called in, though. Within moments of the lobby sprinklers getting activated, more than twenty guards had stormed into the area, accompanied by two demons roughly the size and shape of bipedal rhinos. Standing in a ragged line across the wrecked entrance were Gunn, Spike, and an equal number of angry street youths.

            "Let's rumble!" one of them yelled, and the forces clashed.

* * *

            Johnson made his way quickly and quietly through the warehouse, back towards Sheffield's office. His wrists were raw and bleeding from where the cuffs had bitten into them during the struggle. His face was bruised, and he could hardly breathe. He suspected that he had a punctured lung, and most likely extensive internal bleeding. He didn't know how long he could survive – he only hoped it would be long enough.

            After killing Cook, he had first retrieved the key to the handcuffs and let himself out. Then he had grabbed the gun and tucked it in back of his pants. He left the body and the knife where it had fallen. There wasn't time to hide it.

            Moving alongside what had once been the foreman's office, he darted a glance through the glass. No one was there. He opened the door and entered. Moving with purpose, he began opening drawers. It took only a moment to find what he was looking for – Sheffield's field command module.

            Sheffield had changed the encryption key and timing sequence of all of their transmitters. That meant that MacKenzie couldn't pick them up on his module. A good thing if he was the enemy. But Johnson knew now that it was the other way around, and Mac needed all the help he could get.

            Resetting the communications sequence on the module and remote updating the individual transmitters was not a forthright task. Most of the men on the team wouldn't have been able to do it. But Johnson was the communications specialist. He knew the equipment backwards and forwards. In actuality, he had been the one to reset them to the new sequence on Sheffield's orders. 

            Given his expertise, then, Johnson was able to remote reset all of the individual transmitters to the original set of mission codes. Once that was done, he set Sheffield's module to an entirely different set. Now Mac would be able to see them, and Sheffield would be the one who was blind.

            Carefully, he placed the module back, and exited the office.

* * *

            As the guard stared down at the violence erupting below him, Wesley cautiously moved up behind him and drew out the N'Tau knife. He stepped silently up to the creature's back, prepared to strike. Just as he drew his arm back, Cordelia cried out in the grip of a vision from the Powers. A real one this time.

            The demon whipped around at the sound and saw the weapon in Wesley's hand. Wesley never had a chance. The demon grabbed his wrist and gave it a twist. Wesley was thrown across the room.

            Kate wasn't waiting for an invitation. She came in fast and hard and knocked the demon back into a wall. Off balance, but not phased by the attack, he snagged up the chair he had been sitting in and threw it at Kate. The throw was wild because of his balance problem. Kate dropped as it sailed past her, striking the thick glass window. The chair burst into a dozen pieces on impact, and a hundred fissures formed in the window.

            The guard stalked back towards Wesley, retrieving the N'Tau knife in the process. He snagged the dazed Englishman and picked him up off the ground. "You were going to stick me with this?!" he growled, a mix of human and demon is his voice. His eyes glowed green, and red welts had erupted on his face. The demon half of him was asserting itself. "Let's see how you like it."

            He pulled his arm to strike, but Kate came up behind him and struck him in the back with the wooden chair seat. The guard dropped Wesley and instead struck at her with the knife. Flipping the chair seat in front of her, Kate caught the weapon – or more precisely, it buried itself in the wood base of the seat. A quick twist tore it free from the demon's grasp. Unfortunately, it was embedded so far in the chair that neither she nor Wesley would be able to use it.

            Wesley quickly rose and looked about him for a weapon to use. The only thing he could see was the phone, so he grabbed it. He smacked the demon in the side of the head with it to no effect. The creature seemed intent on retrieving the knife from Kate. Looking to his left, he saw Cordelia caught in the throes of a vision. She would be no help to him.

            His hand grasped the phone cord, and inspiration hit. He jerked the wire from the wall and the phone, and in two strides wrapped it around the demon's throat. He twisted with all his strength, and suddenly the creature became more interested in him than in Kate. 

            It thrashed, trying to get its hands on the wire. Wesley held on for dear life. Kate picked up another piece of the broken chair and struck it several times. The thing dropped to one knee, appearing to weaken. Now if the could just figure out how to _kill_ it.

* * *

            Spike was covered in gore. He'd managed to rip the horn from one of the rhino demons and plunge it into the heart of the former owner. The keening death cry of the creature could even be heard above the rest of the fighting. Then the second creature had rushed to the aid of its sibling, and Spike was engaged again.

            The fight was exhilarating, at least for Spike. The thing he fought was five times his size, but he wasn't about to give up. He traded blows with it repeatedly. He picked up broken pieces of lumber to hit it with. Eventually, he managed to impale it on a newly exposed tube of rebar. 

            Most of the human guards were out of commission, and about half the gang members had extracted themselves to safety. Gunn wasn't going to let them endanger themselves any more than necessary. 

            Spike, however, was just getting started. Which was a good thing, because the second wave of guards was coming through the doors. And these were all demons.

* * *

            Wesley's hands were beginning to blister with the effort of holding the plastic coated wire tight across the creature's throat. He was at a loss for what they could possibly do to stop it with the K'Tau knife out of reach. Then Kate stopped hitting it. He looked up to see why, and she pointed at the cracked window.

            "How are these things versus gravity?" she asked.

            "Let's find out," Wesley said. He began to drag the creature towards the window. Kate grabbed its legs and lifted it up, and then began to swing it. One, two, three. Together, they hurled the thing through the already damaged window and watched it fall. An additional security patrol had just pulled its cruiser up to the door – exactly below the creature's drop path. The impact of the falling demon crushed the roof and bent the door frames to such a degree that the two guards were trapped inside. The Tologra warrior didn't move. Apparently they weren't that good versus fourteen stories worth of gravity.

            "Let's go," Wesley said.

            "Agreed," Kate replied. They turned to retrieve Cordelia, now whispering faintly. Another voice stopped them cold.

            "I'm afraid I can't allow that," Mr. Gray said. Kate and Wesley whipped around to face him. He stood calmly in center of the room, having simply materialized there. "Until Faith is safe, I must continue to hold you hostage." His voice held no emotion. "However," he added, gesturing to Cordelia, "the message she has just received is of great importance to Angel and the Scotsman. I suggest you get it to them quickly."

* * *

            Angel and Mac peered through the skylight window of the warehouse. From what they could tell, the coast was clear. Mac had, however, disarmed two sensors so far, and there was simply no way of knowing where more of them might be hidden, or where the other members of Sheffield's commando team were.

            They were just about to open the window when Mac's secure communicator beeped. "MacKenzie," he said to it.

            "This is Wesley," came the reply. Apparently Cordelia had kept the other one with her.

            "Are you safe?" he inquired.

            "Not quite," Wesley replied. "Look, there's no time. Cordy got a message for you, from the Powers. Faith is being held in a makeshift hospital surgery on the North side of the warehouse, about a third of the way from the Eastern wall. They've started the operation and you only have about ten minutes to get to her."

            "Got it," Mac replied. "MacKenzie out."

            "Wait," shouted Wesley. "She also says that one of the commandos reset the transmitters to the primary mission frequency."

            Mac looked at Angel, who shrugged. There was never any telling what kind of message one could get from the powers. "One moment," he said to the communicator. He reached into his rucksack and took out the portable command module and set it to the primary mission frequency. Sure enough, all of the blips came up. He could tell where every one of his opponents was.

            "Got it," he said. "MacKenzie out." He put the communicator back in his pocket. He showed the display to Angel. "This gives us an advantage," he muttered. 

            "Right," Angel said. "What about the alarms?"

            "They'll show up here," Mac said. "The only one who'll know we've tripped them is us." Mac studied the display for a few seconds more.

            "Who would've done this?" Angel asked.

            "Johnson," Mac said with surety. He'd always believed that if Johnson had known what was really going on he'd have switched sides, too. Mac pointed to one of the moving blips. "Looks like he's headed for the surgery to stop them. Let's give him some help."

* * *

            Gunn and Spike surveyed the carnage. Another twelve guards were dead or incapacitated. No more were awake and fighting, but it was just a matter of time. Gunn had taken a moment to dispatch the other gang members. It was just him and Spike now.

            "How long are we going to keep this up?" Spike asked.

            "Until my friends are free," Gunn replied.

            "I was afraid you'd say something like that." Spike stretched. "All right, then, bring'em on."

* * *

            Mr. Gray looked dispassionately at Kate and Wesley. Seeing the fear in Kate's eyes, Wesley was reluctant to attack. The creature was beyond what any of them had fought before. So they waited. Mr. Gray said nothing.

* * *

            Johnson headed for the infirmary area. He had to find out if Cook was telling the truth. And if he was, he had to stop it. He couldn't allow them to do something so _inhuman_. He was so intent on his mission that he nearly collided with Sheffield at a corner, him going one way and Sheffield another. 

            The moment they saw one another they both knew the truth of the situation. Pure reflex drove them both to draw their guns and begin firing as they dove out of the way. Twelve bullets were fired in less than two seconds at close range.

            One of them found Michael Johnson's heart.

  



	17. Chapter 17 The Evil That Men Do

**  
** Chapter 17 

The Evil that Men Do

            _Cold_.

            Faith could feel the chill creeping in from the tube in her arm. The chill of death was slowly seeping through her body. She tried once again to move. Her toe refused to wiggle. Her nose refused to twitch. Her eyelid refused to open.

            She screamed. No sound came out. Her lips didn't move. Her mouth didn't open. Her lungs didn't expend any more volume than the precise, measured pace of her involuntary reflexes. The incessant beep-beep of the heart monitor set a rhythm with her breathing against her will.

            The drug the Doctor had given her had suspended all voluntary muscle control. She hadn't known that when he'd given it to her. He'd told her it was simply something to make her drowsy. But she wasn't asleep. She was wide awake, and completely aware of everything that was happening to her.

            Worse than that, she was aware of exactly what was going to happen.

            The Doctor had told her while he worked. He'd kept his voice low so the other soldier couldn't hear him. She wasn't supposed to be awake for this – aware. But the good doctor was interested in what she would perceive. He wanted her aware for the process so that later they could review the experience. She would tell him everything that happened to her.

            He was insistent on that. She would tell him everything. She would recall every feeling – physical and emotional. She would recall every thought she had. She would recall every sensation, sight, sound, and taste. He wanted to catalog it all.

            He wanted her to be very much awake for her own death.

            He'd told her that, too. He'd told her about all he would do. The tubes would pump cold saline into her body, slowly lowering the temperature. When she was critically low, he would add drugs that would slow her heart and lungs. He would electrically stimulate her brain in order to keep it active while the body died. Possibly only a minute or two, but it was important that the brain not be allowed to die for too long.

            Eventually, her heart would stop.

            Soon after, all brain activity would cease.

            That's when the new Slayer would be called. That's also when her spirit would attempt to enter the afterlife. That's when she would be dead.

            He had arrangements for all of it. The tubes would begin sending through warm saline to raise her body temperature almost immediately. When it had reached a reasonable level, say three or four minutes after she had died, the electrodes would begin stimulating her brain. It would be random signals at first. Nothing much to it, other than stimulating the neural pathways for her return to life.

            That would be accomplished by shocking her heart back into rhythm. The electrodes were already in place. They would restart her heart, and her spirit would return to her body, and then there'd be three Slayers.

            She wasn't so sure about her spirit returning. Life here was pretty crappy, and she figured she'd take just about any excuse possible to get out of it. She was pretty sure that once her spirit was set free, it was taking the express train out without even leaving a note. She'd hoped that would be the case, anyway.

            It wasn't so much that she wanted to die – well, she did, but that wasn't it entirely. She wanted to screw this sick bastard. He wanted her to remember it all, to recite it all back to him when she returned. He wanted to have his voyeuristic little adventure through her life and afterlife. _Well screw him_, she said to herself. She'd let herself die just to make sure he didn't get what he wanted.

            But these were the Watchers. They had anticipated that contingency. Not so much her desire to leave, but the chance that they might lose track of the spirit. That it might go wandering and decide not to return. So there were provisions for that as well.

            The bed she lay on was in the center of a pentagram inscribed on the floor. Black candles burned at each of the points. In the center, below the bed, was an anchor – a literal anchor, taken from a small boat. Around it was woven a braid of her hair. It would anchor her within the sphere cast by the spell. There was no escape for her.

            Stones and crystals had also been placed at each of her charkras: amethyst, onyx, garnet, quartz, diamond, emerald and ruby. They focused her power inward. She radiated power, he had explained to her. A Slayer's aura could be blinding to the right seer. They dare not let that power expend. They must focus it into her, preserve it. It should also protect her from the effects of what was to happen. It would keep her from becoming too _damaged_ while she was dead.

            He chuckled at that. _You're frickin' damaged_, Faith had thought at him. But of course, she couldn't say anything. She couldn't move her mouth or tongue or teeth. She was mute in the face of sadism at its worst.

            He had talked to her the entire time. While getting her ready, while laying out the spells and hooking up the machinery. He had mumbled and muttered through every stage of the operation. He had told her everything about what was to happen. He had told her all about what had been happening as well.

            That's how she knew about the amulet.

            All those thoughts in her head, all those times she trusted in them, they had all been lies. The amulet had manipulated her, and she hadn't even realized it. Neither would the others: the Slayers to come after her. It would tell them who they could trust, and it would be the wrong people.

            She was sickened by that amulet, by what it had done to her. She was no goody two shoes, that's for sure. Plenty of people had used her body – she'd even done her fair share of that. But no one had ever used her soul. It had violated her there, deep inside. It had lied to her about who she was.

            Not even the Mayor had done that. In fact, the Mayor had done the opposite. He'd been completely honest with her. He'd told her the truth – about himself, and about herself as well. He was a creature of evil, dedicated to perverse demonic gods. He had made Sunnydale into a haven, a feeding ground for them. And in return, he would be made one of them. He'd be a demon god on Earth.

            He also told Faith what she was. She was a creature of power. Right and wrong didn't matter to her. Only the exercise of power was important. He was right. She didn't care – she hadn't, then. He'd loved her. She was his dark princess. He was family to her. Or at least the closest thing she'd ever had to a family.

            That was all a long time ago, though. She'd attempted to kill Angel for him. She shot him with a poisoned arrow, and only the blood of a Slayer could cure him. Buffy had come after her. If the blood of a Slayer was required to heal him, then it would be Faith's blood that did the healing. It hadn't worked out that way. Faith had ended up in a coma, and Buffy had killed the Mayor. Compared to this, the coma had been a vacation.

            Faith hadn't cared about good and evil then. But evil had cared about her, and she had clung to it. He had even made arrangements to care for her after his death. Since then, only one person had cared about her: Angel. He had cared about her, and so she cared about good. A little. A very little.

            But she wasn't about to let that amulet touch her again. Not if she could help it. Of course the Doctor had pointed out that she couldn't. She had no control over her voluntary muscle actions. She would die by his hand, be revived by his hand, and have the amulet placed back around her neck by his hand.

            He laughed at that. He knew she was revulsed by the thought even though she could make no facial expressions. He knew, and he laughed. The irony of it, according to him, was that she would be the one to place the amulet around the neck of the next Slayer. She wouldn't remember by then. She would only trust what it said, and her hands would poison the next Slayer with the thing she herself loathed.

            Faith's mind twisted at that image. She wanted to block it out, to squeeze her eyes shut and bury her face in her hands to make it go away. Just like she had buried her face in Michael Johnson's chest. 

            The thought of that brought a fresh wave of confusion over her. Angel wasn't the only person to care for her, but Michael didn't know what she was. He didn't know what kind of person she was, the things she'd done. If he knew, would he still love her? Would it matter?

            She didn't want to think about it, but she couldn't help herself. He probably had visions of her, too. Unlike the Doctor's, though, they were of happiness and children and crap like that. She didn't get to have that kind of life. She'd never had a life like that. Not as a child, and certainly not as an adult. She'd never get to simply live and love someone. That wasn't in her cards. She was a Slayer, and Slayer's weren't allowed to love.

            Buffy had been proof enough of that. Everything, everyone that she touched went up in flames. She was a walking demolition team – a natural disaster with super powers. It was the same with Faith. It came from being a Slayer. It came from being a killer.

            She'd need to let him down. She could simply run – that's what she normally did. She could simply tell him he wasn't good enough. That would be cruel, but it would do the trick. It had worked with Xander Harris. She could tell him the truth: that she didn't deserve his or anyone else's love. He'd just argue with her over that, though. She really didn't want to have an argument over it. She didn't want to have any sort of discussion over it. But she couldn't let it go on, either.

            Of course, that would all depend on her getting out of the situation she was in. That didn't seem very likely. There was nothing she could do. Nothing but feel the cold seep into her body, and listen to the steady beep-beep of the heart monitor.

            And wait for death.

* * *

            Angel and Mac dropped to the floor of the warehouse, silent but instantly on guard. No gunshots came from the shadows. Mac checked the command module, noting the supposed locations of the other soldiers. Angel used his own senses to scan the area around them. They were clear.

            Angel unwrapped his favorite broadsword from sheet of black felt he'd carried it in. It wasn't necessarily the best weapon in this circumstance, but he'd never really learned to handle a gun. Besides, he really liked Betsy. She had good balance, was finely shaped, and could sing when he needed her to. She was the finest weapon he owned, and he felt comfortable with her.

            "Ready to go, Betsy?" he whispered to the sword.

            "Betsy?" Mac asked, looking over at him. The big Scott had put away the portable command module and was rechecking his pistols. He wore two strapped across his body, one in the small of his back, one in his boot. On his right thigh he carried what could only be described as a small cannon.

            Angel looked over, slightly embarrassed that he'd been overheard. MacKenzie was eyeing him with a grin. Angel shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah," he said lamely. "Named after a barmaid I knew."

            "Well Betsy," Mac addressed the sword and pulled out his hip cannon, "I'd like you to meet Imogene."

            The two men headed quickly towards the North wall of the building, where the medical facility would be located. They were only a few steps towards it when they heard shots. A flurry of gunfire just off to their left. Mac backed up past one stack of crates and began making his way towards where the sound. 

            He peeked around the corner quickly, just a quick glance. Seeing no identifiable threats, he moved out into the area and looked around the next corner. That's where he saw Johnson's body.

            He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Angel was covering, and then went over to the body. The angle he was twisted at could only mean death. Mac knelt next to him and felt for a pulse. He wasn't surprised to find none. Mac's head fell forward, suddenly overcome with grief.

            "After all the years, all the missions," he said huskily, "why'd you have to end up this way?" He wiped a tear from his eye, and then stretched forth his hand to close Johnson's. He wanted to leave him in peace.

            He got up and headed back towards Angel, pulling out the portable command module and checking it. The signal for Sheffield was heading away from them at a dead run. It was no question, then, who had killed Johnson.

            "Now I'm really pissed," Mac muttered as he passed Angel. He moved at steady pace, not a run, keeping his eye on the command module. They had only minutes to rescue Faith, but they didn't need to blunder into a trap. They had plenty of time to get where they needed to go and do what they needed to do.

* * *

            Sheffield darted into the infirmary. "What's the status?" he demanded.

            "Everything is going according to schedule," the Doctor said. "A few more minutes at most."

            "Hurry it up!" he ordered. He turned on Jessup. "I think Johnson let out our location. We should expect company."

            "I'll go get the men up and ready," Jessup replied.

            "My command module's in my desk," Sheffield said. "Get it first, then get the men, and then get back here." Jessup saluted and turned to leave. "Leave me your rifle," he said. "I'll hold this point."

            "Yes sir," Jessup replied and handed the rifle over. "Should I worry about Johnson?"

            "No," Sheffield replied. "I eliminated him."

            Faith couldn't believe the words she was hearing. Johnson, dead. It couldn't be. But she knew it was. He had probably died believing that he loved her. He'd died that way, and it was all her fault. No – it was all _Sheffield__'s fault._

            White hot rage welled up in her soul. It fed her Slayer metabolism, which was already eating its way through the drugs the Doctor had given her at an amazing rate. It still wouldn't have been enough had it not been for the crystals. All her aura – her power – was focused inwards. And it was attacking the foreign substances in her body, eating away at them like white blood cells on overdrive. 

            The heart monitor skipped a beat.

* * *

            Mac waved Angel to duck behind a crate. Ahead of them steps echoed at a run. Mac checked the command module and could see Jessup's icon heading right for them. He waited, looking for the exact moment.

            Jessup was headed full tilt down between two rows of crates, heedless of nothing but the upcoming danger. Had he known that the invaders were already there, he would've been much more careful. He wouldn't get much of a chance to regret the mistake. Just as he was running by a crate, Mac's right hand shot out in front of him, and Jessup's lips kissed Imogene's butt at full speed.

            Jessup catapulted up and out, landing in a heap. There was no need to even bother checking – he'd be out for week, and eating through a tube for much longer. Angel and Mac resumed their stalk towards the infirmary.

* * *

            Sheffield checked the load on the rifle he held, chambered a round, and set it to full automatic. He wasn't taking any chances on someone coming in and disrupting the experiment. He needn't have worried about someone coming _in_.

            The white hot fury of Faith's rage, combined with the intense focus of her own aura, burned every last bit of the muscle control drug from her system in seconds. The Doctor was just turning around as alarms began to sound on the equipment when Faith's arm jerkily tore one of the tubes out.

            Sheffield spun around and saw the unbelievable site. The supposedly nearly dead Slayer was trying to get out of the bed. "Too bad for you," he said, "but they're getting a new Slayer." He lifted his gun and aimed at Faith.

            Mac didn't have a clean shot at Sheffield. He could only see the muzzle of the rifle rising through the doorway. He raised his hand cannon and took aim, adjusting to the left of the doorway. _Let's hope the walls are thin, he thought as he squeezed the trigger._

            The wall of the infirmary was, indeed, thin. Nothing more than a single sheet of plasterboard that disintegrated into a shower of rock chips and choking dust. Mac's bullet itself missed, but the explosion spoiled Sheffield's shot, which was rushed at it was. Before the Major could recover, Mac fired again, and again.

            Faith's jerky movements, and the shock of the gun blasts, took her over the edge of the bed. Sheffield lost site of her, and was himself under fire. He spun and fired on full automatic through the doorway, chewing up the walls and crates. Both Angel and Mac dove for cover.

            The rifle expended its load in seconds, and Sheffield knew he had to get to a more secure position. He couldn't, however, leave loose ends lying around. He had no angle on Faith, and that angered him. But there were other pieces of this to be taken care of. As he made his retreat through the side door of the room, he drew his pistol and put three large holes in the Doctor. Sheffield then turned and ran for the stairs.

* * *

            Mr. Gray seemed distracted for a moment, reading something out of the air. He was, in fact, observing the balance of the universe, the threads of good and evil, order and chaos, all stretched out before him. He watched the gross distortion he'd been sent to repair right itself. The deed, then, was done. Faith was safe.

            He turned his attention back on Wesley and Kate. "The agreement between us was until the threat to Faith was eliminated."

Just then, the door slammed open and Lilah stalked in, furious.

Mr. Gray lookedat her, then continued. "The other conditions which Lilah placed on you are none of my concern."

Lilah began to protest, but Kate grabbed another Ming Dynasty vase and cracked her over the head with it. Lilah collapsed into an undignified heap.

And with that, Mr. Gray disappeared.

  



	18. Chapter 18 Escape and Pursuit

**  
** Chapter 18 

Escape and Pursuit

            Angel and Mac entered the infirmary, both on their guard. They looked around carefully, and noted the dead body in the corner. Angel circled around the bed, where he found Faith. She could barely move. She couldn't talk. Angel hoisted her up in one arm, the other keeping a good grip on Betsy.

            Mac checked the control module. "The rest of them are on the move," he told Angel. "It's not like they could sleep through the gunfire."

            "Any ideas?" Angel asked.

            "Can you get her through that Wolfram and Hart team in that condition?" Mac asked.

            "I think I can handle that," Angel replied.

            "All right," Mac said. "There's a clear path to the back door. The other team thinks that it's wired to blow, thanks to Cordelia, so they won't be watching it too closely. Head that way and get her out of here."

            "What about you?" Angel asked.

            "I've got other things to take care of," Mac said. "Good luck," he added.

            "You too," Angel said, and then turned and carried Faith in the direction of the back door.

            Mac checked the monitor. They were moving towards him, three man formation. He didn't care about them, but he couldn't have them coming up behind him, either. He looked around the room, his eyes settling on the oxygen tank.

            He went to work quickly. He grabbed the tanks, the electrodes, and a few other components. In a few seconds they were a crude but effective bomb. He didn't have much time. He headed off towards Sheffield.

            The three remaining commandos from Sheffield's team burst into the infirmary, carefully covering all the areas. Brody yelled to the others and pointed towards a note taped to the oxygen tank.

            "Wired to blow. Run now. Mac." They all looked at the tank, and realized that they had only one choice. They turned and ran.

            They had put enough crates between themselves and the bomb that they were uninjured when it went off. The entire side of the warehouse burst into flames, sending shrapnel out into the street. A swath of destruction separated Mac and Sheffield from the other three. They were in a no-win situation, so they decided to exercise the better part of valor. They activated their extraction plan.

* * *

            Angel carried Faith through the warehouse, his senses peeled in every direction. He had to make sure that she was safe, and he still had a Wolfram and Hart strike team to wade through. He stopped at the back door and adjusted his burden. He took a deep breath and prepared to plunge through.

            "Wait," Faith whispered, her voice strained with weariness.

            He looked over at her. "Don't talk now," he said. "Let me get you somewhere safe." He kicked the back door open.

            And the North half of the building exploded. Angel's head snapped around, seeing the wall of flame erupt back by the infirmary. "Good job, Mac," he muttered. He wanted to take advantage of the diversion. He gathered Faith up and headed out into the darkness.

* * *

            Wesley, Cordelia, and Kate made their may down to the lobby of the Wolfram and Hart building. They encountered no other guards along the way. When they reached the lobby, they saw why.

            Spike and Gunn sat on the hunk of a burnt out Hummer, playing 'Rock, Scissor, Paper.' Around them were countless guards, a mix of human and demon, all spread out and unconscious – or worse.

            "Damn," Kate said.

            "Oh my," Wesley supplied.

            Gunn and Spike looked up from their game. "It's about time you showed up," Gunn said. "We were getting pretty bored down here."

            "Yeah, well, if they hadn't made it by sunup," Spike supplied, "you would've been waiting all by yourself."

            "Shall we?" Gunn said, and gestured towards the parking lot. The group of them headed out the door – or would have, had there been a door to do through. It would be more accurate to say that they clambered through the rubble.

            Parked out in front of the building was the guard's cruiser. The two guards were still trapped inside, the twisted body of the Tologra warrior resting atop. Gunn stopped by and leaned in the broken driver's window. "Sorry you guys missed all the fun," he said. "Do you want we should call triple-A or something? I mean, you look uncomfortable."

            "Screw you," the guard replied. But Gunn could tell that they were scared. They had seen what he and Spike had done to their fellows, and they wanted no part of it.

            Wesley set Cordelia in the front seat of the truck and had Kate climb in beside her. He and Spike climbed in the back, and Gunn got in to drive. 

"Where to?" Gunn asked.

            "The hotel," Wesley replied. "But let's stop at Cordy's house first. Dennis will take of her." Cordelia did, in fact, have the most caring and solicitous roommate any of them had ever met. Unfortunately, he'd been dead for thirty years. Even if he hadn't, though, he never would've been anything more than a friend to Cordelia – he had terrible taste in clothes. But they knew they could rely on Ghost Dennis to see that she was taken care of.

            "What's that?" Spike inquired of Wesley as they got on the road.

            Wesley held up the wooden seat bottom with his four thousand year old N'Tau knife stuck in it. "Cordy's favorite hair ornament," he said.

* * *

            Angel ran through the alleys at inhuman speed, carrying Faith cradled in his arms. The strike team was right behind him. He dodged around one corner, and then another. They were still hot on his trail. He skittered to a halt, and set Faith in a doorway. There was only one way to handle this.

            The strike team came around the corner and one of them raised a fist. They came to halt. There were five of them. Four were armed, wearing standard combat gear. The fifth wore long brown robes and a hooded cowl. The creature turned and sniffed.

            Angel dropped from four stories up. His landing was perfectly executed, right in front of the vampire tracker in the brown robes. It turned and hissed at him, the others bringing up their weapons. Angel, though, was already in motion. In one swift stroke Betsy sent the demons head flying off into one corner of the alley.

            Angel smiled at the others as the body of the tracking demon crumpled. "Now, we can do this the hard way," he said, gesturing at the body. "Or you can turn around and run for your lives." He paused, giving them a moment to consider. They didn't move. "Why is it always the hard way with you people?" he asked. He didn't expect an answer.

* * *

            MacKenzie kept low as he moved across the roof of the building. Sheffield had finally gotten wise and discarded his transmitter, but not before going to the roof. Mac knew that he had him cornered. Unfortunately, this was perfect territory for an ambush, and MacKenzie knew it.

            He stalked carefully, keeping to cover, and looking for signs that Sheffield may have come one way or another. He tried to listen, but the sounds of the burning below him and the oncoming fire sirens rendered that sense useless. He had to go more on instinct than anything else – where would he set up if he were Sheffield?

            He darted a glance around him, looking about the roof. There were too many places that seemed attractive. The obvious one was the water tower in the far corner. A sniper could have virtually unlimited security from there. But that would also eliminate too many exit routes and restrict movement. Besides, he didn't think Sheffield had a rifle anymore. Mac ignored that location.

            There was a maintenance hut about halfway down the south wall. It was a better possibility. There would be an almost unlimited ability to hide inside, on top of, or around it. There would also be equipment in there for making other weapons, such as the makeshift bomb Mac had created in the infirmary. That seemed too obvious, though. Sheffield would go for something sneakier.

            His eyes and ears strained for any hint of where his opponent might be. This reminded him of the war games he had participated in years ago. The commando games always came down to a one-on-one scenario. He had won three years in a row, but so had Sheffield in his day. The others on the team had wondered what it would be like to see him and Sheffield go head-to-head.

            Just a few days ago they had gotten a preview of that. In the Sunnydale cemetery, Mac had led Sheffield on a merry chase, and eventually outsmarted him. Sheffield, though, had used magic to shoot Mac in the back. Call that round a draw.

            This time, though, there'd be a winner and a loser. The stakes were life and death. Sheffield couldn't afford to have MacKenzie continue to tail him. It had to end here and now. On the other hand, the fire crews were coming, and eventually the police. That would be a danger to him. He needed to escape unseen. That meant he had to act quickly.

            Mac thought again about what he would do. _If I were being pursued and had headed up to the roof, where would I go? He concentrated for a moment, closing his eyes and reversing the roles_. I wouldn't go to the roof_, he concluded finally. _And that means neither did __Sheffield___._

            Mac turned, suddenly remembering the trap-door he had just passed. There were a number of them which led from the catwalks just below the warehouse to the roof. They were large, steel caps that covered a two by two opening. It would the perfect place to pop out of and ambush someone on the roof. As his head spun the corner of his eye saw the muzzle of the gun. He jumped sideways.

            Sheffield had his head and shoulders out of the hole in the roof. One hand held the trapdoor to keep it from banging. The other extended his pistol at Mac and pulled the trigger. He'd been waiting on the ladder, patiently biding his time. He had heard Mac's footsteps cross above him as he passed the trapdoor. He'd waited a moment more, and then silently risen like a ghost from the grave, aimed, and fired.

            Mac twisted sideways in the air, spinning as he dove aside. Sheffield got three shots off in the space of a heartbeat. One clipped MacKenzie's coat and would've been a kill shot had he not moved when he had. One went just under his hip, so close that Mac would feel the disturbance it left in the air. The third went across his chest as he twisted, ripping a line through his shirt and leaving a grazed trail of blood.

            Those were the only three shots Sheffield would get off, though. In mid-air, twisting his body, Mac was able to bring Imogene to bear. Sheffield dropped down the hole as Mac squeezed the trigger. The retort of the gun drowned out the noise of Sheffield's free fall onto the catwalks. The recoil sent Mac careening out of control, landing him in a tangled heap on the roof. The shot hit the steel cover of the trapdoor as it was falling closed and ripped it clean off its hinges. It skittered to a stop about the same time Mac looked up.

            Mac rose in a scramble and ran for the trapdoor. The chase was on, now, and he couldn't let Sheffield change the momentum again. As he ran he put Imogene back into his hip holster and drew two smaller automatics from his sides. He slid to a stop next to the opening and fired them both into the hole. There was no return fire, so he risked a look. Sheffield was not in view. 

            Mac dropped himself head and shoulders through the hole, guns at the ready. He paused only a moment, looking for a clean shot. Then he dropped himself the rest of the way through. He thrust one hand into the metal ladder leading up to the trap and used it to turn himself so he landed upright. He spun around, looking.

            He located Sheffield after only a moment. He had moved down the catwalk and around one side of a ceiling mounted crane. Neither of them had a clean shot. Sheffield was limping, his fall having broken an ankle. Mac took off in hot pursuit.

            They exchanged gunfire as he came around the corner. Both men ducked behind what limited cover they had. Then Sheffield was up and darting across to a control panel. Mac fired twice, but couldn't hit him. At the panel, Sheffield began hitting buttons. The crane lights came on. 

            He grabbed the joystick and twisted it. The crane spun. He raised the neck, adjusted it, and sent it spinning. The large metal hook on it weighed a ton all by itself. Sheffield used it to catch one of the supports on the underside of the catwalks. Suddenly, the section Mac was on lurched violently, crumpling. He was pitched over the side.

* * *

            Angel leapt. Not at the strike team, but over them. They weren't expecting that, and their attempts to twist and track him bunched them up. He landed just to their left and on the opposite side of where he'd started. He spun and struck.

            Betsy caught the rifle of one of the assailants and sent it flying. Then he was moving in, hands, feet, and sword flying. The strike team had clumped together in a way that made it impossible for them to bring their weapons to bear. The same wasn't true for Angel. He used the flat of the sword to hit one and then another across the head. They crumpled, tripping one of their fellows.

            He reversed the blade and used a cross-arm slash to catch the remaining member on the forearm. The blade bit deep and the man dropped his rifle. Angel spun and followed it up by driving the pommel into the man's forehead. He dropped like a rock.

            The last man, the one who'd been tripped up by his fallen comrades, attempted to run. Angel, though, was faster than any human. Three strides brought him in front of the strike team member, and he grabbed him by the collar.

            "Leaving so soon?" Angel asked. Then he transformed into his full vampire face. Ridges formed in his forehead. Those, he'd found, were particularly effective when delivering a head-butt. That's exactly what Angel did, and the last man fell, unconscious.

            Angel turned to leave. He had only made it a few steps, however, when the manhole cover in the street behind him was knocked ten feet in the air. He whipped around as it landed, the cacophony of its impact echoing off the alley walls. A growl carried up through the manhole, followed by one scaled set of claws. A second set of claws found purchase by gouging deep furrows into the asphalt.

            "This is more like it," Angel commented, swinging Betsy around in a complicated arc. He dropped back into a ready stance as the Katar Beast drug its slimy body out onto the street. 

* * *

            Mac gripped the rail of the twisted catwalk, his body dangling fifty feet above the concrete floor. The metal screeched in protest as he tried to swing his legs up and hook his foot. The motion of his weight sent a shiver through the metal. One more stanchion let go from the wall, dropping it another two feet and causing Mac to lose grip with one of his hands. He hung there, suspended by one hand, unable to climb up and having nowhere to land should he fall.

            He was considering his situation somewhat precarious when the first bullet ricocheted dangerously close to him. Sheffield was shooting at him. The next bullet was even closer. He was about to have a choice of falling to his death or being shot, possibly killed, and _then falling to his death. He didn't like either option._

* * *

            Angel faced the giant creature with a certain amount of trepidation. The stinger at the end of its ten foot tail was dangerous. The three rows of teeth in its five foot wide maw were dangerous. The two clawed front feet were dangerous. The large blinking light on the radio collar indicated that it was one of Wolfram and Hart's pets. None of that was really the issue. He could dodge around it well enough, avoid the teeth, claws, and stinger, and eventually manage to bury Betsy in some vital part of the creature. However, there was a risk that it would get past him and manage to get Faith before he could stop it. 

            He slowly backed down the alley, his sword swinging wide arcs in front of him. His best bet, as near as he could decide, would be to see if Faith could get up and go. If she were able to flee the area while he held it off, he could catch up with her after he had taken care of the demon. If she couldn't, well, he'd have just given up some precious ground.

            He backed up almost to the place where he'd left her and attempted to call out to her. "Faith," he said. There was no answer. "Faith, I need you to run. Can you do that?" He heard no reply. No movement at all, either.

            The Katar Beast scuttled up a few feet and shot its barbed tongue out. Angel dodged to the side and took a swipe at the appendage. They both missed. "Forgot about the tongue," Angel muttered to himself.

            He called to Faith again, and there was no reply. Finally, he risked a look back.

            Faith was gone.

  



	19. Chapter 19 Cliffhanging

**  
** Chapter 19 

Cliffhanging

            "How can she be gone?" Angel asked the Katar Beast. It roared a reply back to him. He was pretty sure it hadn't understood a word he'd said. "Where would she go?" he asked. The creature lashed its tongue at him again. He dodged and took a swipe at it.

            The answer was obvious. "Back to the warehouse," he said. "She probably wants to finish it herself."

            The Katar Beast had grown weary of the dialogue. It lashed out with its tongue again, at the same time dragging itself further down the alley with its stubby front legs. This time Betsy connected, and tongue was severed. The creature howled in pain. Angel took the opportunity and ran straight at it.

            The slathering lips of the beast pulled back in a hideous grin as he ran straight for its mouth. It gripped its forelegs into the street. The anticipation of its next meal sent a bizarre light into all seventeen of its black eyes. The stinger-capped tail curled over its head.

            At the last moment, Angel jumped. He put one foot on the top of the thing's bulbous head and pushed off to the side. The creature's tail darted at him, plunging down into the space he was in. But he'd moved, and instead the Katar Beast impaled its own brain with the stinger.

            Angel put on a burst of speed to return to the warehouse. He wasn't sure how much time he had, but he was sure it wouldn't be enough. What could Faith possibly be up to?

* * *

            Faith shrugged on the jacket they had left in her quarters, along with the spare pair of pants, the turtleneck, and her boots. The other clothing was burning up in the fire. She looked up as the crane tore into the catwalk supports. The metal walk twisted and bent, and the red-headed soldier who'd come with Angel was pitched over the side. He managed a grab with one hand. She wasn't interested in him.

            She scanned the catwalks and quickly found Sheffield. That's the one she was interested in. That was the one who had to _pay. She headed off towards one of the access stairways. Sheffield began shooting at Mac._

* * *

            MacKenzie twisted around to get a better view of his situation. It wasn't pretty. The first four stanchions on the left side had let go, along with the middle two on the right side. That left the whole thing sitting, twisted, with him trying to hang on. If the first stanchion on the right side were to let go, the whole thing would swing towards the wall. Over there, he'd be able to drop onto the crate stack – a much shorter drop than the one he was facing onto the concrete floor.

            The trick was to make the stanchion let go. After a moments thought, he drew Imogene. He carefully aimed and fired. The brick shattered and the support let go. Mac hung on for dear life and the metal twisted and swung. He let go and dropped to the crate stack. He landed hard, on his injured shoulder. Pain surged through his body and he fought for consciousness. He had no idea where Imogene had landed.

* * *

            Sheffield limped to the edge of the broken catwalk. His aim was no longer obstructed. Mac lay curled up on a crate, clearly in pain, and completely unaware of Sheffield's presence. He raised his gun to fire, his aim unsteady from his own injuries. The first shot struck close to MacKenzie's head, sending splinters flying. Out of reflex, Mac rolled off the crate and out of range.

            "Damn," the shaking Sheffield muttered. "Looks like I need to go after you."

            "I don't think so," Faith said from behind him. Sheffield spun around. Faith grabbed his throat and pushed. She held him out past the edge of the broken catwalk.

            Sheffield's feet hooked the lip of the catwalk edge. His body jutted out, being held at an angle arm's length from the edge. He leveled his pistol at Faith's head.

            "Go ahead," she said, a smirk forming on her face. "You shoot me, I drop you. Seems like a good deal to me." Sheffield hesitated. "You were going to kill me anyway, why don't you do it now?" She stared at him. He stared back. "What's the matter? Aren't you willing to die for your cause? You were more than willing to kill me; why aren't you willing to kill yourself?" Faith's anger was beginning to get the better of her. She squeezed his throat tighter.

            "We can deal," he gasped out. His words were barely audible.

            "Deal? You want to make a deal?" Faith laughed. Sheffield croaked an affirmative. "Prove it," she said. "Drop the gun."

            Sheffield stared at her for a long time, trying to come up with a plan. The only problem was that she was seriously willing to die over this. He had no leverage; there was no threat he could make. That was the problem with fanatics – you can't reason with them. And Faith was fanatically bent on revenge.

            Sheffield considered all the angles. If he shot her, he might be able to hold on to her long enough to not get dropped. He doubted it, though. If he bent his legs, he might be able to propel himself far enough to land on the crates instead of falling all the way to the floor. That was equally as unlikely. If he hesitated much longer, he'd pass out from lack of oxygen and be able to do nothing.

            Slowly, he drew his gun away from her. He lowered his arm and dropped the weapon onto the catwalk by his feet. His intention was to show good will, to negotiate a deal. But he also wanted to keep the weapon close. Whatever deal he struck, he was going to put a hole in this woman the first chance he got.

            Faith giggled. "That's right," she said. She loosened her grip on him ever so slightly, allowing him to breath. "Hmm," she said, tapping the side of her cheek with the index finger of her free hand. "What do I want for sparing your life?"

            "Anything," he croaked out. "I can arrange whatever you want." He really wasn't sure he could. However, he was willing to promise anything in order to get back onto the catwalk. She didn't have to know that, though, now did she?

            "You mean, like, you could keep me from going back to prison?" she asked. "'Cause that would be super." She reflected on the idea theatrically. "You see, the food sucks there. The conditions are horrible. The guards are sadistic. And, oh yeah, someone's always looking to take me out." She gave Sheffield a vicious shake. "Explain to me how that's any different that being with _you!"_

            Sheffield began to reevaluate his position. He was beginning to realize that there was nothing he could say or do to make peace with her. Anything he said, anything he offered, was going to be twisted around on him. She was rabid, and he was in her clutches. He desperately needed to find a way out.

            "I know," Faith replied, starting to enjoy this little 'conversation' the two of them were having. "Why don't you offer me a chance to settle down, get married, and have a nice, normal family? How about that?" Again, she reflected on the thought. "Wait a minute, there was someone who was going to offer me that. What was his name? Let me think?" Her eyes turned cold as she bored her gaze into him. "Oh yeah," she said, sarcasm dripping in her voice, "Johnson. Remember him? Tell me, what exactly happened to him?"

            "Mackenzie," Sheffield squeezed out. "Killed him."

            "Now we have a problem," Faith replied, her voice growing more and more on edge. "See, I heard what you said. You thought I was out. You thought I was totally oblivious to what you bastards were doing. But I wasn't." She gave him another violent shake. "_You_ killed him."

            Faith took a step forward and shoved Sheffield. The result was that his feet lost their purchase on the edge of the catwalk and he went swinging out over the open expanse. His hands latched to Faith's arm in case she should try to drop him.

            "You want to make a deal," she said to him, "but then you lie to me. What kind of behavior is that?" She waved her free arm in disbelief. "What kind of deal can we make if we can't trust one another?"

            Sheffield's feet kicked in mid-air. He struggled against her grip, trying to find some way to leverage his position. But there was nothing. He was totally at her mercy, and as near as he could tell, she was without mercy.

            "You know, I'm feeling kinda tired," she told him. That much, at least, was true. She was using every bit of strength she had to keep from passing out. She was never going to be able to keep this up. She just wanted to see the look in his eyes a little longer. She wanted to see him fear her. She wanted him to beg for his life, which is more than he'd given her a chance to do. Or Johnson.

            "My strength could give out at any moment, you know. You could just drop like a big melon and go splat all over that floor. And you know why?" She paused, giving him a chance to utter a denial. "Because of all the _drugs somebody pumped into me. Who could that have been? Huh? Who?" Her face was growing more twisted; her fury was becoming more unconstrained. Sheffield's struggles became more intense._

            Faith looked deep into his eyes. She saw the fear – the knowledge that she held his life in her hands. She could take it or give it as she chose. She felt the rush of power. She was a creature of power. She knew that. And here it was, the power to do whatever she chose to do. She could drag him back, she could drop him, or she could jump and take the ride right along with him. It was all up to her.

            It was like a cliff. Faith was standing on the edge, both literally and figuratively, and had to decide whether or not to go over. Power called to her, she could feel it deep in her soul. Her body craved it. She wanted it like a junky wants a fix. Her hands began to loosen their grip.

            "Don't do it, Faith!" Angel called out from behind her.

            She didn't turn around. She simply stood, staring at Sheffield, holding him fifty feet above the concrete floor. Her eyes were unfathomable.

            "Faith!" Angel called again, hoping for any reaction from her. He moved along the catwalk with a preternatural grace. He could, he thought, rush her and manage to catch Sheffield before he could drop. He wasn't about to put money on that, though. 

If he did that, even if he were successful, Faith would be left in a purgatory of her own mind. She wouldn't know, couldn't be sure, of what decision she might have made. She would be forever wondering: would I or wouldn't I? He had to talk Faith through this. He had to get her to pull back on her own.

"Faith," he said gently, "I know what you're doing."

"That's funny," she replied absently, not looking back. "I sure don't."

"Sure you do," Angel said. "You're trying to decide how best to rid the world of this scum. You know you can, any way you want to. You're just trying to decide which way is best."

"Well, well, well," she said, her voice a study of indifference, "Angel got right in one. So what do you think, should I just drop him? Or should I go along for the _ride_?"

Angel realized that her voice was filled with anticipation. She was ready, willing, and able to jump. More than that, she was looking forward to it. He had to talk her back from the ledge first. Then he'd see if he could save Sheffield or not.

"Think about it," Angel said urgently. "If you jump, they win."

"How do you figure?" she asked, for the first time showing a little interest in the conversation. She really didn't want to think about it, but the mere thought that somehow they could get away with all they were going to do to her was abhorrent. She wouldn't allow that – she wouldn't allow even the chance of that. Of course, it could be a trick. It could be Angel's good deed for the day. She couldn't allow herself to be manipulated, either.

"They're prepared for your death," Angel said quickly, sensing an opportunity to get through her armor. "They're waiting for the next Slayer to be called. They're going to go get her, and do to her what they tried to do to you." He paused, waiting for her to acknowledge what he was saying.

"Yeah, they are," she whispered. It was an absent thought, a realization she hadn't intended to vocalize. But there it was. "How do we stop them?" she asked. For the first time she was open to alternatives. She was beginning to listen.

"You live," Angel said simply. "We stop them by keeping you alive. As long as you live, they can't get their hands on another Slayer."

She thought about it for a moment. She actually turned and looked at him, her dark eyes burning into him as she tried to decide if he was telling the truth. He was, she decided. At least he thought he was. But she wasn't satisfied; there were too many loose ends.

"What's to stop them from trying to get me later? From just rubbing me out in prison?" she asked.

"Well," Angel said, thinking about it, "we're going to have to break their organization wide open." Yes, that was it. This was how he could save both of them. But he was going to have to be very careful about it. "We're going to have to expose them to the rest of the Watchers. We're going to have to break their leaders."

"How are we going to do that?" she asked.

"Not 'we'," Angel said carefully. "You're job is going to be to stay alive. Mac and I will take care of blowing this organization apart."

"Okay," she said simply. "I guess I won't take a dive. Can I still kill this one, though?" It was an honest question.

Angel, however, had set up the answer. "No, Faith, you can't. I need him alive."

"Why?" she asked. "What difference is it going to make. It'll be just one less scumbag floating around. One less worm to feed."

"Faith, listen to me," Angel said sternly. "The cops are coming. Hell, they're already here, they just haven't got past the blaze. If you kill him, then you're the bad guy. We need _him to be the bad guy."_

"You think you can pin this whole thing on him?" she asked.

"I don't know about the whole thing," Angel said. "But we can pin the murder of Michael Johnson on him."

Her head snapped around. He'd been around to hear that part. He knew, then, what had happened. He knew what she really wanted. Not just vengeance for herself – no, that wouldn't do. She wanted vengeance for Michael Johnson as well.

Faith considered. She licked her lips, trying to decide. She stared up at Sheffield, deep into his eyes. She saw the truth there: he was more afraid to be caught and tried than he was of being dropped and killed.

That decided it for her. If he was so afraid of living, then that's what she'd give him. He would live, not because she didn't want to kill him, but rather because he didn't want to. She wasn't doing a good deed – no, she was doing the worst thing to him that she could think of at that moment. This wasn't redemption for her, this was a 'good deed' that simply drove her further into the dark. She tasted it, savored it, and she very much liked it. _Let him live, because it's the _worst_ thing I can do to him._

Faith backed up slowly, drawing him back towards the catwalk until his feet touched. Then she let him go.

He nearly did fall then, but he caught himself. One leg slipped out from under him, and his other knee hit the steel grating hard. He looked up at her retreating figure. She'd turned her back on him, and Angel was drawing her into his embrace. It was a sickening sight. 

He looked down, and there at his feet was his pistol. He looked up, seeing Faith's fully exposed back. His hand reached down, gripping the weapon. He took a deep breath, and raised it. He would kill Faith if it was the last thing he did.

"Gun!" shouted Mac from below them. Angel didn't hesitate. He swung his own body in front of Faith's. He took four gunshots to the chest before Sheffield collapsed. He staggered back into Faith's arms, propelled by the kinetic energy of the bullets.

They waited for a moment, but Sheffield didn't move. Cautiously, Angel and Faith looked over the rail. Mac stood on top of one of the crates, his tranquilizer pistol in his hands.

He waved at them. "He'll just sleep a bit," he said. "I might suggest, though, that we should get out of here before the police get past that fire."

Angel and Faith agreed.

  



	20. Chapter 20 All That You Can Do

**  
** Chapter 20 

All You Can Do

            Faith looked in the mirror. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, both new. She'd be trading them in for prison clothes today. She was going back. After all she'd been through, after all the opportunities to escape had come and gone, she was heading back. She really wasn't sure why.

            Kate was going to take her. The rest of the team had decided that it was best if they didn't become too deeply involved in the official side of things. It would do Kate good, as well. She'd collect the bounty, which she promised to split with Faith. She'd also regain the respect of some of the other officers. Perhaps her career in law enforcement wasn't quite over yet.

            It hadn't been all bad, though. Last night the team had taken her out to Caritas to watch Spike do his Billy Idol show. It had been okay – well, it hadn't sucked. Faith had even managed to let herself smile a couple of times during the evening. The clothes had been a gift from Cordelia. After all, a girl couldn't go out without a new outfit.

            Faith snorted at that. She wasn't going to be getting any new outfits for a long time yet. But the thought was nice. Even if Cordelia didn't like her, or Wesley either, for that matter, they'd all put their lives on the line for her. Faith didn't understand that. She wasn't sure she entirely approved of the concept, either. But that was part of being on the side of 'good', apparently.

            A knock sounded at the door of her room. "Come in, Angel," she said.

            The door swung open to reveal the vampire standing there, leaning on the doorjamb. "How did you know it was me?" he asked.

            "You're the only one who would willingly come up and see me," she responded. Her voice was not devoid of bitterness. Nor could it be expected to be. She'd had a vision of freedom – freedom, love, and normalcy. It wasn't for her, she knew that. But just enough of her wanted it that she felt bitter at it having been denied her.

            "I suppose I ain't gonna get no prettier standing here looking at the mirror," she said. Still, it was difficult for her to tear her gaze away.

            "Hey now," Angel said, wrapping his arms around her. "It'll be okay. I promise."

            They stood that way a long time.

* * *

            Everyone was waiting for them when they descended the stairs. They were gathered in the lobby, trying their best to look glum instead of relieved. It was difficult, though. The wounds, both emotional and physical, from their previous encounters with Faith had yet to heal completely. The team couldn't help but be skittish about it.

            Angel smiled at everyone, clapping his hands together in an attempt to imply that there was nothing uncomfortable about the situation. It didn't work, but he plunged on bravely none-the-less. "Kate has news, I hear," he said as a segue. Not very elegant, but it did the trick.

            "It's all arranged," she said. "I'm going to accompany Faith to the station where she's going to turn herself in. They know she's coming back voluntarily, so they promised to be nice about."

            "Really?" said Gunn. "I wouldn't think that would be in their nature." Seeing the look on everyone's faces, he realized he was talking about Kate's very recent colleagues. "Present company excepted," he added quickly.

            "Well, to be honest, they probably wouldn't. But I gave it to them straight – she was the victim here, and they damn well better treat her like one." Kate ran one hand through her hair, deciding how much to add. "I also let them know that if I wasn't satisfied with the way they treated her, I still knew a lot of people in Internal Affairs."

            "Ah," said Wesley. "When all else fails, follow up with a threat."

            "Something like that," Kate said. "Anyway, I probably didn't need to put it on that heavy, anyway. They've got Sheffield dead to rights on the murder of Michael Johnson. Faith is just corroborating testimony."

            "Excellent," Angel said. "Hear that, Faith? You're corroboration."

            "Grand," she said flatly.

            "There's more," Kate said. "The whole band of them is in the country illegally, operating on a covert mission. The D.A.'s office is contemplating charging them as terrorists. Especially since the British government has denied all knowledge of their existence or mission."

            "How convenient of them," Wesley muttered.

            "Yeah, well, this tape will now self-destruct in five seconds and all," added Gunn. The 'Mission: Impossible' reference was lost on no one. That was one of the well-known hazards of working covertly – if you ever got caught, you were likely on your own.

            "No kidding," Kate said. "They've got two live ones and two bodies, and one still at large."

            "Me, you mean," MacKenzie said. "Aye, well, I expect they'd like to have a wee chat with me." He shrugged.

            "Well, with Faith's signed statement, and my verbal to back it up, the D.A. has decided to not look for you very hard for seventy-two hours." Kate arched an eyebrow at him meaningfully. Just in case he hadn't gotten the hint, she added, "After that, it would be really good if you weren't around anymore."

            The fight over that had been a much bigger deal than in making arrangements for Faith's surrender. The D.A. and the police commissioner both had the same attitude about covert operatives running around L.A. as Kate did. They wanted every last one of them under lock and key. Kate, however, had pointed out that Mac was here to stop them, and had succeeded. Given that the LAPD hadn't even known the team was operating here in the first place, it was a good thing.

            After extracting a promise from her that he would get out of town pronto, they had relented. In exchange, she had extracted a promise not to be tailed when she met to meet with them. It was probably unnecessary, but she felt she should stick to principles.

            "After Jessup got the news that the team had been disavowed, he completely rolled over on Sheffield," Kate supplied further. "With him singing like a canary, they are accepting Faith and my versions of what happened. That means that she won't be charged with escape. In fact, a motion has been filed to move her to a lower security facility as reparations for the State's failure to protect her."

            "Really?" Faith replied, flummoxed at the thought.

            "Who filed that?" Angel asked, looking questioningly at his team.

            "Her new self-appointed legal team," Kate replied. Seeing as how she had their interest, she dropped the bomb. "It seems that Wolfram and Hart has taken on her case pro bono."

            "What!" they all exclaimed at once.

            "I don't get it," Gunn said. "They kidnapped us, we blew up their lobby, not to mentions somebody's new hummer, and now they're helping us out?"

            "Yeah," Kate said. "It seems that when they finally figured out what Project Eve was, they got scared. If an army of Slayers had gotten started in their jurisdiction, they would lose a lot of clients. It seems that they want to make sure that no one finds out how close Sheffield and his team came to succeeding."

            "I can see that," Wesley said. "The only way to control the story is to own it. The only way to own it is to become Faith's defense attorney. In that situation, they'll be able to discredit anything they don't want released, and possibly even seal the records."

            "More than that," Kate said. "They're bringing a lot of force to bear on Sheffield and Jessup. They want them to endorse Faith and my statements as exactly how it happened, and use those as confessions. No real trial at that point."

            "And your statements are highly selective," Mac said. Kate's nod confirmed his deduction about them. "That would pretty much end the whole thing right then and there, with no mention of the Watchers, or the Slayers, or even Angel."

            "You got it," Kate replied. "I think Jessup's going to take it. Sheffield is remaining silent, but I think it's pretty clear that his employers hung him out to dry on this one."

            "The sad thing," Mac said, reflecting on that last statement, "is that if Sheffield had stuck to his morals, he could've scrapped the whole mission. The RAF would've brought him back into its bosom, buried the whole thing, and Arinoth would've had to start all over. But as soon as he started accepting orders for Arinoth, the whole game changed." He shook his head. "I'm sad to see it happen."

            "Well I'm not," Cordelia volunteered. "He was a _bad man_. He just hadn't had the opportunity to show it up til now." She nodded.

            "Well lass," Mac replied, his face grim, "it's a mercy that more men never are faced with such an opportunity. I fear at how many would fail such a test."

            There were nods all around. None of them could be too sure on which side of good and evil they would walk given the right circumstances. They could only do the best they could, each and every day. That's why Faith was returning to prison – it was the best she could do right now. It was all she could do.

            After a moment's reflection, Kate looked up. "We'd better get going," she said. Faith nodded. She hugged Angel, and then looked at the others. No one else was stepping up to give her a hug, but they the courtesy of wishing her 'good luck' at least. 

As they headed out, Angel grabbed the donut box and rushed up to Faith. "Bear claw?" he offered.

"Nah," she said. Then she smiled and added, "Those things'll kill ya." It wasn't much of a joke, but it was enough. They left the lobby.

* * *

Far across the water, Arinoth looked at the latest report from his operation. He gritted his teeth at its content, and set it aflame there in the palm of his hand. Gone! Wrecked! His whole operation in shambles, exposed to the other Watchers. 

Worse yet, Sir Radcliffe's body had yet to be discovered. He cursed at that. The damn slippery eel had evaded him, and was even now plotting against him. He would need to find him – find him and drive him into the ground once and for all. 

Fortunately, he was now firmly in control of the council. There would be no investigation. He had nothing to fear from the other watchers – or from Sir Radcliffe.

He picked up the playing piece from the board: his representation of MacKenzie. He should have killed the man before, back when he first considered it. He could still do it, this instant. But he was neutered now – cut off from everything. He would let MacKenzie go, and hope the man would flush out Sir Radcliffe. Then he could have revenge on them both.

And he would make sure it was face to face.

* * *

Mac shook hands Angel and his team. His bags were packed, and he needed to get out of L.A. There wasn't much for him here, anyway. He had another mission – he had to find Arinoth and stop him once and for all. He wasn't sure how he was going to do that, but he was sure that the Watchers were the key. He had to infiltrate that organization first, and to do that he needed to return to England.

Gunn slapped him on the back. "Too bad you can't stick around. I was hoping you'd show me how you did that trick with the metal detector."

"Some other time, perhaps," Mac said. "I intend to return, you know. Legally next time."

"You'd better," Cordy replied. "A girl can't hang around forever just waiting for a big, strong, handsome, European guy to show up and sweep her off her feet, you know."

"I'll keep that in mind," MacKenzie replied.

"Say hello to the home for me," Wesley said.

"I will," Mac replied, taking his hand. "And I'll make good use of the information you gave me about the Watchers. It'll be a big help." He pumped Wesley's hand again.

"Let me walk you out," Angel said. Together, the two men headed for the door. "By the way," Angel said absently, making clear that the question he was about to ask was anything but an afterthought. "Why did you use the tranquilizer on Sheffield? I thought you were there to kill him."

"I was," Mac said. "But I pulled out the tranq gun to use on Faith, when it looked like she was going to jump. I figured if she made any moves, I could drop her and you could catch her."

"Oh," Angel said. "So when Sheffield grabbed his gun …"

"I just used the only thing in my hand at the time," Mac replied. "I won't say I'm glad of it, because leaving Sheffield dead would've solved a lot of problems for me, personally. But I guess this is as good an ending as any."

Angel nodded several times. He was, at this point, at a loss for what to say. "Allrighty," he said at last. He thrust his hand out to Mac.

Mac took it, pumped it once, and turned to leave.

"Good luck," Angel said to him.

"Aye, a little luck never hurts," Mac replied. Then he paused and turned. "But I'd rather have some good mates at my back."

"You got it," Angel replied.

Angel watched Sheffield walk out of the building and disappear onto the L.A. streets. He had no idea how he was going to get back to England, or how when he would see him again. He did, however, have feeling that the man would survive. There was something about him – something that Angel seemed to recognize. Later on, he would realize that MacKenzie reminded him of himself.

Perhaps the two might join forces again. They were a formidable pair. For now, though, Angel was content rejoin his own little band. That group of loyal, dedicated friends who looked after one another, put their lives on the line for one another, who …

"All right, who ate the last bear claw? Is it just too much to ask that _I_ get one just every once in a while? I mean, this is my hotel after all. You would think …."

The End

  
  



End file.
